


A Song For Heart and Soul

by rabbitwriter



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Alternate Universe - Post-Battle of Five Armies, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Battle of Five Armies Fix-It, Bearded Dwarf Women, Canon-Typical Violence, Dwarf Culture & Customs, Dwarves In Exile, Eventual Romance, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Female Protagonist, Fix-It of Sorts, Fíli Dies, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Kíli as King, Matriarchal Dwarves, Past Rape/Non-con, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Trauma, Slow Burn, Stubborn Dwarves, Thorin Oakenshield Dies, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Women In Power, slight AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-22
Updated: 2016-08-31
Packaged: 2018-08-10 07:25:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 19
Words: 85,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7835509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rabbitwriter/pseuds/rabbitwriter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fìli and Thorin are dead. Kìli is King Under the Mountain. Erebor is being rebuilt and things are not going well. For starters, the Mountain wakes up one morning and all its masons are dead.</p><p>Kivi Journeyman carries secrets close to her heart. She also happens to be a Stiffbeard - a member of Thulin's Kin from the North and the East, a daughter of a House known for its unmatched skill in masonry. Those among the Men and Dwarves of the West would even call her a "master" mason.</p><p>She needs an ally. He needs a mason. Together, Kìli and Kivi are about to find out that they are more to each than either one would have thought.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> If you've been reading A Song For Heart and Soul, or if you've just found this and plan to start reading, I would like to invite you to check it's original fiction face-lift. I've been working, for several months now, to turn the basic premise of ASFHAS into an original high-fantasy-meets-romance.
> 
> I've finally finished my edits/rewriting and submitted it to a contest for possible publication. I would be over the moon if all of ya'll that have read it here, would hope over to its new home and re-read/follow it it there (just copy/paste link):
> 
> The Uncrowned Queen: https://www.inkitt.com/stories/romance/70037?preview=true&ref=a_420bd4bb-390d-452d-9603-d438b913e842
> 
> I've gotten a lot of love from the fanfiction community over the years. If it wasn't FOR the fanfiction communities I've been a part of, I honestly would have stopped writing a long time ago. I'd love to keep telling stories to larger audiences...so I hope you don't mind this "public service announcement". I'd love to get Kivi's story out there, so maybe one day you can put that story on your own, real life shelf. :)
> 
> Happy holidays!!
> 
> -Rabbit

“ _Far over the Misty Mountains rise,_

_Leave us standing upon the height.”_

“ **Song of the Lonely Mountain”**

**Neil Finn**

* * *

 

**Ibriznurt 'Afdush 8 th, 2941 T.A.**

_(Sunday, November 10 th) _

_**Erebor** _

 

* * *

 

Kíli stood in the middle of the wall-walk and gazed solemnly out beyond the parapets above Erebor's vast entrance. He was tempted to lean against the ancient stones and shift some of the pressure of standing so tall off of his "compromised" leg. That was a term Balin had coined - Kíli had given the older dwarf a scowl at the suggestion, but it did sound better than "bad", or "eternally damaged", or "near-useless". The excitement and movement from Lake Town, through Erebor, and through the Battle of the Five Armies had left little time for the leg that had been wounded escaping from the Greenwood to heal properly. The poison had surely been removed from his blood and body, but even Tauriel's Elvish healing couldn't completely replace the need for skin and bone to knit back together on their own.

He would have a "compromised leg" for the rest of his life, Òin had told him reluctantly. During his youth, the leg would probably give him little trouble, although stress of battle and strenuous exertion would cause him to limp. So, it was not an immediate deterrent - a weakness that few ever needed to know about, Dwalin had insisted. The last thirty-one days of rest and mourning had helped what of his leg could be healed, but even so, standing straight with the heavy weight of a king's robe made Kíli's knee tremble ever-so slightly in the beginning stages of protest.

Or, perhaps, the weakness in his knee was just an illusion, conjured by his weary mind. Kíli stared forlornly out across the great, flat plain that stretched between Erebor's gates and Dale. The earth was still torn from battle, the bottom edges of the mountain still singed, the sparse remaining trees still broken beneath the soft mantle of winter's first snow. He refused to lift his eyes toward the frozen waterfall in the distance, or to the towering rock formations known as Ravenhill, where he had watched the three beings he loved the most fall forever beneath the cruel swords of Azog and Bolg.

 _I should be dead, too,_ he thought, his hands curling into fists of anger against the deep blue wool of his finely-woven robe.

He could have sworn that he been dead, too. His mind racing, Kíli reached up with one broad hand and rubbed that still-tender wound on his chest, beneath the weight of his royal finery. Only the joint efforts of Radagast and Gandalf had brought him back to the living; Radagast had said that the severity of the wound had indeed all but killed him by the time he was found, broken and bleeding, on the icy stones of Ravenhill.

Òin could handle what was left in the wake of the wizards' healing; the jagged hole that Bolg's orc-forged weapon had left just above his heart was all but scarred over now. Kíli didn't think, though, that he would ever forget the cold that Bolg's wicked steel had pierced into the very marrow of his bones. It seemed, too, that grief reawakened that fiery, blue-cold pain; every time he turned with a joke on the tip of his tongue, only to see that it was now Dwalin who stood beside him and not Fíli, Kíli could feel ice move beneath his scar tissue and freeze the blood straight into his heart.

It was no better if he thought of Thorin. It was painful, too, to think of Tauriel, but her loss paled in comparison to that of his brother and uncle. The reality of Thorin's and Fíli's deaths cut far past flesh and muscle, and straight into Kíli's once-untarnished soul. It seemed - especially at moments like this, when he felt the weight of his uncle's kingdom on his shoulders - that Bolg's steel was still killing him slowly from the inside.

"Oh, there you are," a familiar tenor voice jolted Kíli from his dark reverie and he dropped his hand back to his side as he turned slowly around to watch Bilbo huff-and-puff up the last of the stairs. "Balin and Dwalin are beside themselves…"

The little fellow stopped and rested his hands on his knees, so that he could take a moment to catch his breath. Kíli raised a thick black eyebrow - once a smile would have accompanied such a movement, but now his lips stayed firmly drawn in a neutral line. It was the best that he could manage these days - not quite his uncle's infamous scowl, but not the easy, roguish grin of before. It was something in-between and nothing at all. Kíli - who, as any archer – had learned to observe dispassionately from the background, now relied heavily on that to help him tamper down the grief and harrowing pain that felt like they would ravage his soul straight to the grave.

"You look as if you've run the whole way from the mines," Kíli pointed out with just the faintest note of alarm - the last thing he wanted was the dearly beloved hobbit to fall over from a failure of his heart.

"Oh, gracious, no," Bilbo still leaned a hand against his right knee, but lifted his left and flapped it at Kíli in a gesture of dismissal. "Just from the kitchens, y'know? I ran into Nori while running an errand for Bombur and he said Dwalin was looking for you, but didn't want to tell him that he'd seen you head this way. We both thought it best if I find you first."

"Why didn't Nori come and find me, then?" Kíli huffed in something remotely related to a laugh.

"Oh, well…" Bilbo finally seemed to have caught his breath and he stood up to his full height - which was about chest-high to the dwarf in front of him. "I think he was trying to chase a-erm," the hobbit coughed uncomfortably, eyed Kíli warily, and then blurted out - "Well, one of the new dwarf-maids."

Kíli just snorted and rolled his dark-brown eyes. The first wave of families from the Iron Hills had arrived just the other day and already half of his uncle's company was chasing after skirts. Kíli was quite certain that he'd never be able to find himself attracted to a dwarf-maiden. Not after such longing for smooth, creamy skin, long, silky red hair, and slender limbs…

Unfortunately, the crown that was waiting for him in the throne room down below dictated by dwarven law that he at least find a dwarf-maiden attractive long enough to create an heir for Durin's people. The thought made Kíli a little ill. Dwarven law also dictated quite a lot of other things about such a union, including that Kíli wed said dwarven-maid before creating said Durin's heir.

J _ust what I've always wanted: a loveless marriage,_ he thought bitterly, as Bilbo (oblivious to the dwarf prince's thoughts) pulled a handkerchief out of his coat pocket and wiped it across his perspiring forehead.

In all actuality, the entirety of the long existence ahead of him was filled with a veritable catalog of all the things he never wanted - the least of which, really, was producing an heir. That was probably one of the few, potentially _titillating_ expectations on the agenda.

"I suppose I should go and get on with it then," Kíli spoke as if to himself as he turned his head back toward the battlements and squinted resentfully at the wan, but cheerful winter midday sun.

"Hm, not quite yet. King Thranduil wishes to speak to you," Bilbo twisted his waist around and peered behind him toward the long flight of stairs below them.

Kíli leaned a bit to the side as well and raised another eyebrow as he watched the the King of the Greenwood lifted the edge of his long, silvery robes and started the steep ascent to where the soon-to-be dwarven king stood. His lips threatened to turn down into a scowl that was eerily reminiscent of his uncle's.

"What in Mahal's name does he want to speak to me about?" he glanced over at Bilbo, as if the hobbit was expected to know.

The smaller, tousle-headed man just shrugged his shoulders.

"Who's to say?"

"Well...best you go find Balin and tell him I'll be on my way. If he grumbles about me being late, blame it on the Elf."

Bilbo smiled, but it was a fragile thing. Kíli had never been, in his experience, a secretive or evasive dwarf. Rather, the youngest prince of Erebor had been quite well known for his reckless youth and fervent passions; he wore his heart on his sleeve as apparently as his brother had worn the dignity of his royal fate. But, things had now changed...the heir and the heir apparent to the Lonely Mountain were now buried in its depths, both slain by Azog. The youngest prince of Durin - the one who had never expected to rule the dwarrow of Middle Earth - would bear the crown of the King Under the Mountain within the hour. And when he had come to that realization within moments of seeing his felled brother and uncle, Kíli had drawn deep within himself.

Bilbo wasn't the only one who feared that such a change was ultimately irrevocable.

"Certainly," the hobbit bowed his head slightly and scampered off past Kíli toward the flight of stairs on the opposite side of the wall-walk.

Kíli watched until the hobbit's sandy-blond head had disappeared into the deeper shadows of the keep. Only then did he turn his eyes forward, to see the tall spires of Thranduil's crown arise majestically one step at a time. Within moments, the elf stepped onto the wall-walk, his movements as straight-backed, elegant, and carefully calculated as always.

"Prince Kíli," Thranduil greeted Kíli in his strange, precise, otherworldly way.

"King Thranduil," Kíli rumbled back; the two inclined their heads politely toward one another. "Master Baggins tells me that you wish to speak to me?" the dwarf's sharp brown eyes met the elf's ethereal blues.

"Yes," Thranduil tucked his hands slowly into the voluminous folds of his silver overcoat; Kíli wondered if the woodland king was purposefully looking down at his nose at him, or if it was just a habit so ingrained into Thranduil's being that he didn't even notice it anymore. "As the eldest ruler gathered here today for your coronation, I thought I might offer counsel before taking on the responsibilities of your crown."

 _My uncle's crown_ , Kíli stubbornly corrected Thranduil, but didn't dare speak it out loud; his insistence that he should not be given the weight of his forefathers' legacy had been soundly rejected at every turn so far.

He was learning to keep his resentment to himself.

 _I'm going to turn into Uncle,_ he added to himself, before realizing that Thranduil's mouth was moving again and maybe it was best if he at least pretended to give a damn.

"...Prince Kíli?"

Kíli focused just soon enough to hear Thranduil prompt him with the full force of his gracious condescension. The young dwarf rolled his shoulders and ground his teeth, but met the elder elf's gaze and nodded tersely.

"Please forgive me, I have been given quite a lot of advice to consider these past few days. My head feels rather...full."

"Indubitably," Thranduil placidly agreed.

Kíli wondered what in Mahal "indubitably" even meant.

"I will wager, however, that the advice from one king to another is quite different from subjects to their ruler," Thranduil moved as fluidly as water, as he took the few steps to stand next to Kíli, who grudgingly turned as well to follow the elf's gaze over the battlements.

There was a delicate pause and Kíli shifted uncomfortably in his boots. Was he supposed to say something back? By Durin's beard, this was excruciatingly awkward.

"You have honored my people, Prince Kíli, with the return of our gems," Thranduil paused, as if considering his next words; Kíli continued to fidget. "You also honored us in your devotion to my Captain of the Guard."

Kíli froze and couldn't stop blinking up at the taller, pale-haired elf in sheer amazement. He really didn't know what to say now, but at least he had enough royal comportment drilled into him by Balin by now not to gape like a young dwarfling at Thranduil's startling proclamation.

"I witnessed your mourning on the battlefield," Thranduil did not return the dwarf's gaze; the elf stood as still as the stones around him, his icy gaze fixed firmly at Dale sprawling out before them. "And I pray your forgiveness of my intrusion in such a private moment. But, I speak of it only to tell you that I have witnessed such a scene long before and though I thought it impossible, I must admit that you have moved me to honor what was real."

Only then, did Thranduil turn his head and meet Kíli's stunned gaze. The elven king's face was as dispassionate as ever, as serene and unreadable as always. But, there was an unexpected compassion in his eyes that puzzled Kíli as much as it surprised him.

"I do not deign to know nor understand the ways of dwarves, but the ruling of a kingdom is not so different, I wager, between our kind. The exile of your people will have changed many things, Prince Kíli," Thranduil turned his head gracefully to consider the parapets in front of him and he even reached out a hand to run his slender fingers meaningfully over a jagged crack that ran from the top of one merlon, down to the very floor at their feet. "You will find that more than just these stones may have been broken."

Those cold, strange eyes captured Kíli's gaze for a final time.

"Learn from your history, Prince Kíli. And,” the Elf paused delicately, his next words spoken slowly, as if they cost him. “And, also from mine. Do not rule solely from within your lonely halls," Thranduil finally broke his gaze with Kíli and wordlessly invited him to turn and consider the halls and hallows yawning open beneath them. "If you wish to honor your people and the memory of my Captain, then rebuild more than just what lays inside these ancient stones."


	2. A Dire Need

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Kìli notices something strange about Dale...

“ _What was before, we see once more -_

_Our kingdom, a distant light.”_

“ **Song of the Lonely Mountain”**

**Neil Finn**

* * *

 

**Abkân-nurt (Ab) 'Afkalm 24 th, 2943 T.A.**

_(Friday April 23rd)_

_**Erebor** _

* * *

 

Kíli was sprawled unceremoniously across the great oak chair that the Woodland elves had given to him as a coronation present. His dark eyes watched the heated debate raging down the length of the enormous, polished cherry-wood table, but he kept his own council for the moment. He fiddled his left thumb between forefinger and ring finger of the same hand, and ran a scarred knuckle across his teeth from time to time.

Balin had long ago give up the fight over Kíli's comportment when in private - the youngest crowned king of Durin's line stubbornly insisted on abiding by his own bad habits when he was behind closed doors. One thick calf was slung casually over one of the chair's intricately carved arms; one sturdy goat-hide boot bobbed unceasingly as Kíli kept his wordless watch. Every so often, the back of his boot would hit the oak chair with a solid _thwack_ , but Glóin was making such a fuss that no one noticed. His left knee kept time with his right boot, although his left foot was planted firmly on the freshly scrubbed granite beneath his sole. Kíli had propped his left elbow up on the corresponding arm-rest; his right arm was slung casually across his torso, his fingers curled loosely around the mug of Dale-crafted ale that he had placed between his legs.

The dark-haired dwarf was still dressed in his court finery, but he'd tossed his heavy woolen robe onto a nearby stool that wasn't being used. His matching blue over-tunic was still held securely around his waist by his broad, brown-leather belt, but Kíli had loosened the ties of his pale gray under-tunic so that his throat and upper chest could feel the cool nip of the deep mountain air. Such was the slightly disheveled look that he normally went with when his day of royal duties was concluded - it was the only part of the day where he felt like he could breath.

Stern Thorin and noble Fíli, Kíli was _not_. And when he started to suspect that any of his uncle's previous company began to forget that, Kíli went out of his way to remind them that he was king only under protest. The only compromise he honored was one he had struck with Balin a year and seven months before, moments before he had stepped out of the musty-smelling antechamber and started his straight-shouldered march down the length of the King's Hall. Before he took the crown of Erebor, Kíli swore on his brother's honor that he would keep any demonstrations of rebellion locked away behind closely guarded doors.

 _You can resent your fate all you want, laddie - you wouldn't be your uncle's kin if you didn'a_ , Balin had declared firmly, as he stood with his hands full of the weight of the crown he would soon put on Kíli's head. _But, never show your heart nor your thoughts. Y'have another battlefield to win, sire. It'll require an archer's focused gaze an' silent aim._

Kíli had decided that those were, without a doubt, the best words of advice he'd received over the whole matter of his sudden succession to Durin's throne. But, even with Balin's wealth of wisdom, Kíli had managed to make his first year and a half of rule an uninspiring one, to say the least. And, as was the case in the evening's heated discussion, it had been a rather _disastrous_ first year at that.

"...Glóin, you can shout all you want, but the fact still remains that we can'na make any progress whatsoever _without_ a master mason!" Dwalin finally managed to roar over the vociferous argument raging between his older brother and the red-headed dwarf in question.

Every voice around the table went as silent as their king, but there was a collective _huff_ of forcefully expelled air. After a few harsh moments of heavy breathing, Bofur threw his hands up in a startlingly uncharacteristic display of pessimism.

"Well, we've got ourselves a right pickle, then!" the usually good-natured engineer nearly knocked his iconic gray _**ushanka**_ clean off of his head, as his hands flew past his ears. "All o' our master smiths are now buried so far down into the deeps of this mountain that we can't even recover their bodies!"

Bofur's heavy gloved hands fell back down on top of the table with the muffled thump of cloth against wood. His eyes flashed from beneath his bushy eyebrows and his winsome (if hairy) face was contorted by a scowl of the likes no one sitting around the table had ever seen before.

It was Bofur's obvious frustration and angrily-flushed cheeks that prompted Kíli to finally sit up and join the debate. He swung his right leg around, to place both feet next to each other on the stone floor. With a casual shrug of his broad shoulders, the young king pushed his elbow off of the arm-rest and straightened his entire posture in the process. He set his half-empty wooden mug loudly down on top of the table in front of him and leaned forward in his seat, until his forearms rested on the cherry wood on either side of his drink.

The entire room went silent; all eyes turned toward their king and Kíli fought the urge to squirm. It was still difficult for him to accept the fact that when he so much as _sneezed_ , the whole mountain seemed to notice. For his whole life, he had been able to slip behind his brother's shadow when he didn't want to be noticed (and sometimes, he didn't even have to _want_ to be overshadowed by Fíli's presence, in order for others to forget him), but now the only shadow he could claim was his own. It was unsettling, even after so much time, but he continued obstinately forward in the discussion, despite his brief moment of discomfort.

"Now, more than ever, the facts are to the point - Dwalin is correct. We need a master mason. But, I dare say that Balin, Óin, Ori, and Bofur brought back with them the best that they could find," Kíli fingered the smooth, carved curve of his mug's handle. “And now they all lie dead.”

He paused, his mind racing rapidly. His dark eyes turned toward Balin and he squinted against the light of the fire that flickered behind the elder dwarf's silhouette.

"But, we've only reached out to those of the dwarrow who still reside in the West," Kíli paused for a moment more and then slowly added, "What about the Houses in the East and the North?"

There was an almost echoing silence to his question and Kíli tried yet again not to fidget or otherwise reveal his sense of self-consciousness. He hated it when his advisers and close companions acted like this - like they didn't know how to answer to him. As it turned out, he had merely shocked them into silence (apparently, no one had expected him to have been listening during Balin's lectures about dwarrow history.)

"Well...yes," Balin finally answered, his voice low and betraying no small amount of amazement. "There are four dwarven Houses in the East. The Stiffbeards of the eastern Northern Wastes, the Stonefoots in the valleys of central _**Rhûn**_ , the Blacklocks of the deep southern hills, and the Ironfists of Rhûn's northeastern mountains."

"Wouldn't any one of those clans have master masons to spare?" Kíli spread his large hands open wide.

"The Stiffbeards _are_ master masons," it was Ori's turn to surprise everyone with his soft, hesitant response. "The sons of Thulin have long been lauded as masters of stone."

"Ori is correct," Óin interjected, his gray head nodding in agreement. "Not much is known about the Stiffbeards, but they contributed an entire battalion to your grandfather's cause during the war with the orcs. As I recall, they served mostly as scouts and engineers."

"Good strategists, Stiffbeards," Balin added softly; his brow was furrowed and his eyes distant as he turned over his mind for further memories. "They were the only House to bring and build siege weapons during the War. When a wall needed scaling or a portcullis broken open, the Stiffbeards were always leading the way. I recall one young dwarven lad - he couldn't have been more than 80 years old or so, just starting his craft. But he could look at a fortification and find its structural weakness in moments, from sight alone."

"They kept to themselves," Óin stroked his short beard thoughtfully, as he met Kíli's gaze across the length of the table. "They were a secretive, silent lot, the Stiffbeards. But, they were invaluable during our war with the Orcs and they left quite an impression on King Thorin, sire."

"They would not come to our aid, however, in taking back this very mountain," Balin lifted his head and looked up at the high stone ceiling above them, as if searching for each word he uttered. "At the Battle of Azanulbizar, all of Stiffbeards who fought alongside us were killed," the kindly-faced dwarf's eyes slid down toward Kíli's dark head and the two considered each other for a moment. "When their chief learned of the death toll, he rescinded his aid and we haven't heard a word from House of Thulin these 144 years since."

"Would they be willing to help us again?" Kíli tried not to sound too hopeful, but it crept into his voice nonetheless; he smothered a wince at the sound of his own youthfulness.

He had so much to learn. At least he was among trusted confidants, who would not think any lesser of him for grasping at straws.

"As long as we don't tell them why we're reaching out to them for help after nearly a century and a half of silence," Bofur sighed heavily. "If the loss of a whole battalion made them pull back their aid before, I shan't imagine that they'll be impressed to hear that we've managed to lose 174 masons in the span of ten minutes."

Kíli pushed an aggravated breath through his teeth and scrubbed both of his hands over his face. Very little had seemingly gone right during his first 18 months of rule and the very worst of it all had happened not two weeks earlier.

Smaug had paid absolutely no heed to such petty inconveniences as columns and load-bearing walls. Whole sections of Erebor had collapsed in the hundred-and-more years since Smaug had taken over, mostly from the great wyrm's complete disregard for the integrity of his lair. Things were not so bad deeper down in the mountain, near the mines, but the dwarves had quickly found that several key load-bearing structures had been compromised in Smaug's searches for food and treasure. One area in particular had been given the masons and engineers nothing but constant trouble - it was an important part of the mines from a structural standpoint, as it had supported a considerable portion of the upper halls and levels. Several key columns had been knocked out and alarmingly large chunks of the supporting mountain wall in that area had been gauged out. Given the fact that several tunnels had been carved out by Smaug's spear-like claws and that quite a large number of broken remains had been found, the dwarves concluded that the area had caught Smaug's interest, because of the refugees that had either been trapped there, or had been hiding in the tunnels in the hope of escaping once the dragon had brought his rampage to an end.

The area was dubbed "the eastern interlock", in recognition of its importance as a foundation for what became homes, streets, shops, and crafting stores in the levels up above it. Immediately below the "interlock" were three large smithies that promised a considerable production once they could be reignited and used. The potential of those forges, however, would never be discovered.

Kíli was no mason nor engineer, so he couldn't really say what had happened, but one morning a fortnight before, the entire mountain and most of Dale was awakened by the roar of a thunderous collapse in the deeps. The death toll had reached into the two hundreds, at least - a mixture of masons, miners, and engineers, who had been at work on their shift that morning and families that had begun to live in the levels up above the interlock. All deaths were deep losses, but Kíli had discovered that it was harder to address the loss of women and children - especially to a hard-pressed kin who valued the future of their race, as it was tenuous in even the best of times because of the scarcity of female dwarrow. The families had moved into the apartments and housing levels just days before, on the blessing of the head master mason, who had vowed before king and kin that the interlock had been stabilized sufficiently to justify the habitation of the levels above it.

Kíli also discovered that it was hard to blame a dead dwarf. Technically, the tragedy of the eastern interlock was on the chief mason's head. But, since that had been caved in as effectively as the eastern section of the mines, the blame fell quite squarely on his own broad shoulders. Just fourteen days and already Kíli was becoming uncomfortably aware of his plummeting reputation among the Blue Mountain and Iron Hill dwarves.

To be fair, most of the grumbling was coming from the Iron Hill side, as the memory of watching Kíli grow up among the Blue Mountain dwarves inspired a deeper level of loyalty to him. Kíli was a little wounded by the lack of support from the Iron Hill families, especially since he felt that he had established a rather decent rapport with his kin, Lord Dáin. But, apparently, the rumblings of dissatisfaction were loud enough that Dáin had showed up on the plain between Erebor and Dale two mornings earlier. He had come to give his struggling king council, but that was between them - ostensibly, Dáin had arrived with an Iron Hill retinue in order to "show support and solidarity with the kin of Erebor at this troubling time."

Dáin had explained that things did not look so good for the young king - at least, not in relation to his royal career. There were doubts about his youth - many had wondered if Dáin should have been appointed regent until Kíli had "matured". The young king was called into question over his appearance and he himself had heard the whispers of "no-beard" or "the beardless king" as he walked the halls of his ravaged mountain. Never mind that he had soundly declared that he would not grow out his beard until he had moved past his mourning. He had come under fire for "taking too long" to "set aside his grief" and for "dawdling" when it came to taking a wife. His love for Tauriel wasn't common knowledge (thankfully; Kíli could only imagine what his doubters would make of _that_ ), but many were claiming that he didn't care for dwarrow lasses (which wasn't untrue, unfortunately).

Of course, from where Kíli was sitting, it certainly seemed like the dwarrow lasses didn't care much for _him_ , either. He wasn't an idiot, especially since he assuaged what he could of his innate restlessness by slipping along the halls at quiet times, disguised as a common dwarf going about his business. He'd heard the opinions of the young dwarrow maids who currently called Erebor home: the kindest judgment he had heard about himself so far, was that "the king was homely". He was, apparently, too "tall" and too "thin", in addition to the already mentioned shortcomings of "young" and "beardless". (The latter not being altogether fair, he thought, since he _did_ have a beard - just, not much of one. He hadn't let his beard grow out any longer than it had been the day he buried his uncle and brother.) In fact, the general consensus among the Erebor lasses (insofar as Kíli could determine) was that the only positive physical feature he had to offer was his _hair_.

At least the lasses liked that much. But, it certainly wasn't enough to catch the eye of a wife.

The loss of the eastern interlock and the further destruction of the levels above it had only succeeded in cementing his incompetency in the eyes of those who would desire the throne of Erebor for themselves. Kíli had been in talks, negotiations, and burial ceremonies late into each early morning for the past two weeks. He was well beyond the point where he wanted to throw his hands up in despair and tell Erebor to run its own damn self.

Kíli took a deep breath and tuned back into the conversation at hand. He knew only too well by now where such internal lines of thought would take him and there was no time to indulge in his own self-pity. They _had_ to reach a solution by the end of the week, or they would risk losing the cooperation of the Iron Hill dwarrow, despite Dáin's personal efforts to rally support to Kíli's cause.

"...The Stiffbeards might be willing to help. Or they might not. Really, it's quite irrelevant. They live deep within the Northern Wastes, to the east of us, and it would take too long for us to travel there, negotiate with them, and travel back. By the time all that had transpired, we would most likely lose _all_ support we have among our kin - even Dáin's, as stout-hearted as he is," Balin spoke with all the understated wisdom and common sense that had made him indispensable to Kíli, and to Thorin before him.

There was deep pause, during which Kíli sighed heavily again and raked weary fingers through his thick hair. It had tangled slightly over the course of the day and his hand caught on a few strands just beside the heavy King's Braid that rested against his right cheek. He had a corresponding braid on the left side and as he jerked his hand through the tangle with a shake of his hand and head, both braids moved in tandem across the strong line of his stubbled jaw. Kíli made a slight face and glanced at total random over at Ori...and then stopped to stare at the look of absolute concentration that was scrunching up the young scribe's face. The king then glanced over his shoulder, in the direction that Ori was squinting, and then back over at the other dwarf.

"Ori?" Bofur, who had also noticed the faraway look on the scribe's face, leaned across the table and waved his hand in front of Ori eyes.

"Y'know...Dale's been lookin' rather put together lately," Ori abruptly focused on Bofur; he then turned sharp eyes toward Kíli, who quirked an eyebrow back at him. "'As anyone else noticed?"

"Well..now that y'mention it..." Glóin's ruddy face lit up with a dawning realization that was shared by everyone else gathered at the table. "The outer wall's been rebuilt since _**'Afiglêb**_ , by the looks of it."

A rare ghost of a smile turned up the barest edges of Kíli's lips. He picked up his mug, tipped his head back, and took a long, hearty pull of the nut-ale he'd brought into the Council Room from dinner. He slammed the tankard back down on the table as he swallowed; after a rough swipe of the back of his hand across his mouth, Kíli leaned forward toward his company.

"Perhaps Bard's found a master mason among the men," Óin spoke out loud what everyone else was suddenly hoping.

"We'll take what we can," Kíli snorted.

"A...Man?" Dwalin scowled.

"If my choices are a Man or mutiny, I'll go with a Man," Kíli gave his Captain of the Guard a droll roll of his eyes.

He slapped a bare hand down on the polished table top and finally leaned back in his oaken chair. His dark eyes tangled conspiratorially with Bofur's and there was the passing suggestion of a smile across his mouth for a second time that night.

"Perhaps I should pay a visit to our friend, Bard the Bowman and see if he's had success where we have not."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ushanka - Quite literally, the name of the style of hat that Bofur wears. It's a Russian word, but sounded sufficiently "dwarvish" enough that I didn't bother trying to change it.
> 
> Rhûn - The gigantic, almost-continent-sized country to the east of the countries/places of Middle Earth (Gondor, Rohan, the Shire, etc). Tolkien didn't really delve much into the history or culture of Rhûn, but from what I've gathered, it's huge and has an Asian/Middle-Eastern/Russian feel to it, depending on which part of the country one is in. It reaches from sub-arctic-like geography in the far north (where the Stiffbeards live, incidentally) to the desert in the far south (where the Blacklocks live). I imagine the area that the Stonefoots live as steppes or large plains.
> 
> 'Afiglêb – I have plotted the entire dwarrow calendar on a blank calendar template (which is a great, detailed pain, by the way). What I've discovered is that the same day each year is not necessarily in the same month... The dwarrow calendar is based on a lunar calendar, so the dates/months have a tendency to shift around. For the purposes of the story, however, 'Afiglêb would be December 21st – January 18th. The dwarrow New Year falls in October, so the months count up from there. 'Afiglêb is also known as the “Third Month”.


	3. An Arrow To the Knee

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Alfrid gets shot...

 “ _Fiery mountain beneath the moon;_

_The words unspoken, we’ll be there soon.”_

**“Song of the Lonely Mountain”**

**Neil Finn**

* * *

**Thatrnurt (Tht) 'Afkalm 25th**

_(Saturday April 24th)_

**Dale**

* * *

 

"...The anchors should go here and here," Kivi Journeyman stabbed the blueprints unfurled on the makeshift table in front of her with a stubby finger. "This'll give the arch the best foundation to hold the weight of the opening."

A warm late-spring wind ruffled the soft hairs that had escaped the tight braid trailing down the length of the dwarf-maid's back. She absently reached up and tucked a number of loose strands behind her left ear, as she scowled down at the building plans scattered hodge-podge in front of her. A piece of blunt writing charcoal was tucked behind her right ear and had smudged some of her gold-red hair in that area a smoky black. Her ice-blue eyes never strayed from the rough-hewn boards that had been balanced on top of two barrels of aging beer - what sufficed for a workman's table in lieu of anything better. The bits of parchment, upon which a variety of blueprints had been meticulously drawn, had to be weighted down with small, round stones so they didn't blow away in the warm breeze.

Kivi's companions - a mixed assortment of men of various ages - had become used to her quirks after working with her for the last four months and didn't take offense to the fact that the unexpectedly _female_ master mason in their midst had a tendency to talk to her parchment and stones, rather than to those who worked under her instruction. It was a sign of her intense concentration and a grudging sort of respect had been given to her over time.

"Seppä just finished making three dozen anchor bolts. I've sent Leiren to fetch them," Kivi's forehand, Artur, piped up in anticipation of her next question.

"And Midge the carpenter told me this mornin' that he's finished carvin' the last of the arch-beams needed fer the passage," another one of the gathered crew piped up and Kivi glanced up with a rare grin of approval.

"Excellent! At this pace, we'll finish the southern inner wall by midsummer."

She opened her mouth to continue speaking, but before she could even take a breath, a crash, an ear-splitting shriek, and a cacophony of alarmed shouts tore the otherwise peaceful early afternoon air.

"You wicked little _beasts_!" the dismally familiar voice of the local weasel, Alfrid, rose shrilly from the direction of the armory.

There were some more squeals, shrieks, and several foreboding crashes that echoed through Dale's lower courtyard. A deep voice roared above the chaos and Kivi straightened her back with a twitch of her eyebrows. She knew that voice and the harsh, foreign words of the High North that cut angrily through the unseen chaos. And while the others gathered round did _not_ in fact, know what was said, they knew enough to catch two certain names that had become quite infamous about Dale as of late.

"Inkeri! Kalevi!" Kivi's cousin, Jarvi, had a voice that reverberated against the stones; the young mason rather wondered if he could be heard all the way in the Greenwood.

His dire, unspoken warnings were accompanied by several more crashes, the sounds of a scuffle, and then pattering feet. About three minutes later, Jarvi appeared, frog-marching a rather bemused Bain, son of Bard, in front of him.

"Well, here's this one," Jarvi started talking long before he had reached the group of masons and workmen; everyone heard him anyway.

Jarvi put one thick-fingered paw in the back of Bain's back and shoved him (not roughly, though) toward the group of men (and one female dwarf) who were all trying not to laugh at the way the tall youth was being manhandled by a stout half-dwarf that came up only to the young man's shoulder.

"Seems young Master Bain let Keri 'n Kal have a bow and a quiver of arrows 'tween them," Jarvi let go of Bain (who looked appropriately ashamed) and hooked his thumbs in the colorful cloth belt tied around his thick waist. "They've managed to shoot Alfrid," the full, bright-red mustache framing Jarvi's mouth twitched as he met Kivi's eyes; she lifted _both_ eyebrows now and the two fought hard not to grin at each other like idiots.

"Oh?" Kivi cleared her throat and squinted her eyes in a gesture that she hoped was intimidating (and not an obvious effort keep from snickering like a dwarfling).

"Aye," Jarvi nodded sagely, his mustache trembling the whole while. "In the knee."

"Well," Kivi had a coughing fit in earnest, as she accidentally tried to laugh and breathe through her mouth at the same time.

After she had gathered her composure, she glanced up at the human boy who practically towered over her.

 _He does have his father's height,_ Kivi thought absently.

"Master Bain," she said as she pulled her shoulders back and placed her hands squarely on her softly rounded hips.

"Yes, _**Mestari**_ ," Bain mumbled, appropriately ashamed of himself; he clearly didn't want to, but he met Kivi's stern gaze bravely. [“ _Master_ ”]

"I frankly don't know whether to punish you and my young charges," her mouth wiggled dangerously along the corners. "Or to _praise_ the three of you."

The light in Bain's eyes turned hopeful and he lifted his head just a wee bit in eager anticipation of mercy. Kivi didn't _dare_ look at Jarvi and she pressed her full lips into the firmest scowl she could manage.

"So, I'll let you _father_ decide."

Bain's shoulders dropped about two whole inches and Kivi scrubbed a hand over her mouth as she tried not to smile. She finally risked a glance toward Jarvi, who was thankfully straight-faced, although his pale eyes twinkled with his usual good humor.

"Go find the other two mischief-makers, Cousin," Kivi casually beckoned at Bain as she spoke, motioning for him to bend over to her level. "I'll go take this one," she grabbed the youth's ear in a firm grip between thumb and forefinger. "To the Bowman."

 

* * *

 

Meanwhile, the Bowman greeted a "disguised" King Under the Mountain with a back-thumping hug and a large tankard of Dale's most excellent nut-ale.

"Kíli!" Bard held the dwarf out at arm's length and grinned widely, his teeth flashing in the sunlight that poured generously through the nearby window. "It's been a while, old friend!"

"Since **_Khebabnurtamrâg_** ," Kíli didn't smile, but his eyes were warm and one corner of his mouth tugged softly upward as he met the Man's gaze. "It's been busy under the mountain." [“ _Forge Day Fest_ ”]

"So I've heard," Bard nodded, suddenly solemn as he let go of Kíli's muscular shoulders. "My deepest condolences to the families who have suffered from the cave-in a fortnight ago."

"Thank you," Kíli said the only thing he could really think of _to_ say; he swallowed heavily and slapped Bard a few times on the shoulder, before collapsing into the nearest wooden-slat chair.

"Rough times, then?" Bard asked sympathetically after a few moments of appropriate silence.

The soon-to-crowned king of Dale sat down on a stool across from Kíli; Bofur, who was the dwarven king's usual partner-in-crime when he decided to sneak about without a crown upon his head, settled down on a few sacks of ground flour in the corner. Bard's Hall - the long-house style building that temporarily housed the Bowman and his family - was full of light and fresh air. All the windows and doors were open and only a gently smoldering fire was lit in the far end of the narrow home, over which quietly simmered a pot of what smelled like rabbit stew. It was a comfortable, well-worn place and Kíli felt his shoulders (which were always tense with the weight of Erebor upon them) slowly begin to relax. He glanced over at the Man he had come to call "friend" in the last year and a half and sighed heavily.

"Always, it seems," Kíli reached up and pinched the bridge of his nose in an expression of mixed exhaustion and frustration. "Dwarves are an unforgiving and contentious folk."

Bard couldn't help a sharp bark of laughter at that. He chuckled heartily into his ale for several moments, before glancing sideways at Kíli with a grin.

“ An ironic thing to say, my friend. You're not so easy to deal with yourself," the Man's dark eyes twinkled merrily over the rim of his tankard. "For starters, you don't even possess the decency to die when pierced through with orc steel or Morgul poison."

Kíli snorted; he enjoyed Bard's dry humor and took the Bowman's words with an easy shrug of his broad shoulders. Enough time had passed, too, so that he didn't feel his heart ache quite so terribly at the mention of his first close brush with death, which he always associated with the memory of Tauriel standing above him, lit in starlight. His heart still clenched tightly, but with the frequency with which he had thought of the beautiful elf-maid in the last 18 months, Kíli was starting to find that the memory of her no longer brought tears to his eyes. In fact, he was starting to forget the details of her face - the realization left him feeling pensive and achingly bereft. The two sat in silence again; the only sound was Bofur's stirrings in the corner, as he quietly refilled his pipe and sparked a flint against the tightly packed leaves in the rough-carved bowl cupped within his weathered palm.

"So, what brings you to my hall this fine day?" Bard finally nudged the conversation along; he eyed the dwarf he had learned to think of somewhat fondly as a young brother, or a cousin, perhaps. "Not that I don't welcome your company, but you usually only come for festivals these days."

"Aye, I suppose I do," Kíli glanced at Bard out of the corner of his eye and drummed up a weak smile of apology. "Don't come much during the day, either, I'm afraid. Wouldn't do for a dwarven king to be seen seeking advice from a Man."

The young dwarf couldn't keep the creep of bitterness in his voice. He resented the fact that his every move was watched - often by eyes that weren't altogether friendly. Usually, if he was seeking council, he came to speak to Bard once the darkness had set - which was easy to do in the winter, when the sun set behind the Lonely Mountain well before supper. It was harder to visit at any reasonable hour during the summer, at least, in an unofficial capacity.

Kíli had left his crown with Balin and had traveled through one of the service tunnels at the base of the Mountain with Bofur, shortly after his afternoon repast. The young king had his old blue tunic on - the one he had worn while part of Thorin's proud Company. The hood was pulled up over his face, his hair braided down his back, so that it could be hidden beneath his clothes. He wore a nondescript over-tunic that was embroidered with a demure gray thread in an angular, knot-work pattern not associated with any that he usually wore. There were no rings on his fingers, no royal seal or indication of his station. His throat and hands were bare and Kíli reveled in the freedom his borrowed clothes bought him. No one - not Man, not dwarf - had given him a second look as he rode Nori's shaggy-haired pony into Dale with a similarly dressed Bofur at his side.

Kíli had eyed Dale's repaired outer walls as he had approached and what Ori had said was true - the city's outermost defenses had been seamlessly repaired. The need for information was of the utmost important to Kíli's continued control of the crown, so he had ridden straight to Bard's Hall without notice or hesitation.

"I take it there is advice I can offer you today?" Bard graciously overlooked Kíli's embittered reference to the stubborn prejudice of his many kin.

"Mmm," Kíli nodded slowly; he didn't look at Bard as he spoke, but instead settled his gaze toward the nearest window, out of which he could see the crenelation of a nearby guard tower. "Your outer walls are looking well repaired, Master Bard. We of Erebor have been wondering about the secret to your sudden success."

"Ah…" it was more of an exhalation of breath than a word, but Kíli gave Bard a suspicious glance; the Man sounded as if he had expected such a question from the dwarven king.

It was now Bard's turn to not look Kíli in the eye; his gaze fell down into the depths of his tankard and the Bowman cleared his throat before continuing, as if suddenly nervous. Kíli could feel his eyebrows rising slowly toward his hairline in surprise - Bard was never anything but forthright. Seeing such hesitation and...bemusement?...from him was something quite novel.

"Well, I must confess that the Men of Dale were presented with an unexpected bit of luck in the new year -"

Bard opened his mouth to continue, but a voice cut him off so loudly that Bofur jumped and dropped his pipe with a muffled oath and an undignified clatter.

"Master Bard!" the voice – a _feminine_ voice, Kíli noted with mild surprise - sailed sharply through the open door as an accompanying shadow appeared and lengthened between the frame.

Bard's angular face broke out into a wide smile, which he turned toward Kíli. The two considered each other for a moment, before Bard shrugged and jerked a thumb toward the door and the stout figure who abruptly appeared, flanked by two other forms of drastically different heights.

"That would be our secret of sudden success," Bard's smile turned a bit sheepish and Kíli narrowed his eyes disapprovingly at his friend. "Our master mason, sir - Kivi Journeyman."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Khebabnurtamrâg - “Forge Day Fest”. According to Dwarrow Scholar, this feast is sacred to dwarrow smiths. It also signals the end of winter, at sunset. For the purpose of this story, Khebabnurtamrâg falls on February 6th, or the 19th day of the Fourth Month.


	4. Passing Judgment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Alfrid gets a measure of justice...

“ _For home a song that echoes on  
And all who find us will know the tune.”_

“ **Song of the Lonely Mountain”**

**Neil Finn**

* * *

**Thatrnurt (Tht) 'Afkalm 25th**

_(Saturday April 24th)_

_**Dale** _

* * *

 

Kíli would long remember his first impression of Kivi Journeyman. He stood up as Bard's "unexpected bit of luck" stepped further into the long-hall, dragging along her two companions by their ears. He couldn't see much of anything except her silhouette at first, lit as she was from behind by the high afternoon sun. There was a halo around her head, though, that puzzled him for the few moments that it took for her to step into the darker room and to come into better focus. He stood as she stomped resolutely toward the table in front of the two men and when she stopped just an arm length or two away from them, Kíli realized that what he had mistaken for a halo was the light of the sun on her hair.

Kivi had a veritable _mane_ of long tresses the color of freshly polished copper, a brilliant mixture of gold and rose that gleamed even in the dimmer light cast through the window. Her hair was braided sensibly down the length of her back and pulled away from her face, but even that practicality couldn't hide the fact that Mahal had blessed her with a beautiful, wild array of locks.

Her eyes were a brilliant blue, the color of aquamarines, Kíli fancied. Eyes, Kíli had heard Gandalf say once, were mirrors of the soul; if that were so, then he could already tell that this dwarrow-maid possessed a keen intellect and a clear conscience. She met the King's gaze head-on, never looking away, never dipping her head demurely, never fluttering her eyelashes at him. For his part, he was shocked to find a dwarf-maid in the Bowman's house, but he hoped he hid it.

Her piercing eyes finally flickered over toward Bard and Kíli took the opportunity to consider the features of her face. It was oval-shaped, broad along the brow in the style of dwarves, but her jawline brought her face smoothly to a proportionate, if smaller-than-average chin. Kivi had almost a button-like nose, straight and unbroken, and much smaller in size than most noses Kíli had eyed on the dwarrow-maids living now under the mountain. He then noticed (with a sudden, unintended rise of an eyebrow) that Kivi did not have a beard, or facial hair of any sort, except for a pair of gently arched eyebrows that were a shade darker than her hair.

She was _definitely_ not a dwarf-maid of his kin, either of Erebor or of the Blue Mountains. He eyed her smooth cheeks for a few moments longer than he probably should have, as he slowly pieced all the aspects of her appearance together. With a jolt, he realized that she was not, most likely, a dwarf-maid of the Iron Hills, either. If the beardless chin didn't fully hint at an origin not of the West, then her clothes _did_.

She wore a tunic of sapphire blue, that was significantly shorter than any worn by the dwarves of the West. It topped just above her hips and was cinched at the waist by a handsome, studded leather belt, upon which hung the pouches and loops of a workman's tools. The tunic's collar was stiff and high; it brushed the bottom of her jaw along the sides and looked as if it were meant to be clasped shut in the front. Kivi wore it open, though, revealing pale, freckled skin along the curve of her neck and the top of her sternum. The tunic had long sleeves that Kivi had rolled up to just above her elbows, revealing surprisingly muscled forearms and a much lighter dusting of hair along the top of her skin than was normal for most dwarrow. The tunic collar and bottom hem were embroidered with a bright red thread and a few faint weavings of gold.

It was simple garb, accompanied by sturdy brown trews and a pair of chunky-toed, black leather boots that had very clearly seen their fair share of hard work. Yet, despite its simplicity, Kivi's attire looked almost extravagant to Kíli, for all its bright colors and brilliant hues - the dwarrow of Durin's House kept to understated, deep, earthy colors. Next to him and Bofur, Kivi was as cheerfully attired as the riotously blooming landscape outside.

" _ **Hei, veli**_!" the deepest voice Kíli had ever heard drew his eyes swiftly from Kivi to the space behind her. [" _Hello, brother_!"]

A burly human man stood behind her, the struggling legs of what appeared to be a dwarfling slung over his shoulder threatened to smack him in the forehead. The Man seemed singularly unconcerned by the matter; his eyes, which were the same crystal-clear blue as Kivi's, were crinkled up in the corners in a smile of genuine pleasure.

" _ **Tervetuloalänteen**_!" more foreign words tumbled out of the man's broad mouth, which was framed by an impossibly bright red mustache that would have made Glóin green with envy. _"Which family calls you kin?_ " [" _Welcome to the West!"_ ]

Kíli shook his head dully, his brow furrowed deeply in confusion. He had never heard such a language before in his life, but based on the Man's immediate friendliness, he had apparently mistaken Kíli as someone from his own region. The young king opened his mouth to respond, but then promptly shut it, as he squinted, perplexed, at the newcomer. He had no idea how to respond.

“Jarvi, he's not of the North,” a softer voice answered in Kíli's stead and it took him a few seconds to realize that it was the Journeyman speaking.

She had glanced over her shoulder at the Man who was only a mere head taller than her. She shook her head, as confusion settled across her companion's face.

"No?" he shot Kíli a puzzled look and no one could miss the way the Man's eyes dropped over the length of the king's body and then back up at his face.

“No, he's one Durin's sons. Look at how he dresses,” Kivi's eyes flickered over to Kíli and she smiled apologetically. “Please forgive my cousin's mistake, Master Dwarf, but you _do_ have the look of the North about you,” her eyes traveled the same path that Jarvi's had just moments before and Kíli had to stifle the absurd desire to puff out his chest. “You have the beard of an unmarried man and you're much taller than most of Durin's folk we've seen.”

Kíli blinked at that and it took him a moment to process what she was saying. “ _Not of the North_ ” she had told her cousin.

"You're not from…" his voice trailed off as something Kivi had said clicked - he glanced from her, to Jarvi – who looked for all the world like a very short Man – and then back to her. "Wait...your _cousin_?"

Jarvi answered, with a conciliatory nod of his head toward the flustered Kíli.

"I think before we engage ourselves in a discussion about our relation, we should probably explain to Master Bard why you have his eldest child's ear in a death grip, _**serkku**_." [ _“Cousin._ ”]

Bard chuckled at this. He had struck quite a firm friendship with Kivi in the months since the new year - some of this was because she was a dwarf of unquestionable honor and was true to her word. She had shown up in Dale claiming that she was a master mason and her work proved the great worth of her word. They had also become friends in response to the almost-instant rapport between Kivi's dwarfling charges and Bard's three children. All five of them were, at any given time, thick as thieves. The dwarflings - Keri and Kal - were exceedingly hard to dislike and Bard thought the same of Kivi. The two adults had bonded over the inevitable consequences of their childrens' shenanigans and this was not the first time that Kivi had marched into Bard's Hall with one of the Bowmen's children in tow.

He had merely raised his eyebrows in resigned curiosity, when he had recognized Bain bent over at Kivi's side, his ear firmly captured between her nimble-fingers. The conversation had naturally swerved toward Kíli, since he was the stranger in the room, and Bard had patiently waited for the focus to shift back toward Kivi's recalcitrant captives. He was still quite thankful, though, when Jarvi brought the conversation around - the Bowman was most interested in hearing what his only son had managed to do _this_ time around.

"Ah, right," Kivi finally tore her gaze away from Kíli and turned her head to consider young Bain, whose face was on the same level as hers.

He met her gaze out of the corner of his eye and grimaced. Clearly uncomfortable, Bain had nevertheless submitted to Kivi's motherly instincts and while being forced to march to his fate bent over, he had endured it with a stoicism worthy of due respect. Kivi nodded, as if to herself, and let go of his ear.

"Master Bain apparently didn't consider the consequences of letting my niece and nephew have a bow and quiver between them," Kivi now turned her head at her other captive, who was considerably less resigned as Bain.

Kíli eyed the dwarfling with interest - by all appearances, it was a boy, with wildly tousled hair the color of cream. The dwarfling was dressed in a green tunic the same shade as Kivi's jewel-toned blue. The tunic was of the same style as the master mason's - belted around the waist and flared out at the bottom just beneath said belt, high along the hips. His tunic, however, was short-sleeved and edged in a mixture of white and orange embroidery. It was also a little worn in places and patched; an altered hand-me-down, which was a prudent decision, given the dirt smudged across the young fellow's chest, arms, hands, knees, and nose.

The dwarfling (who didn't have to bend over to be held in Kivi's iron grasp) glared defiantly at the room at large. His bright eyes - the color of jade - settled on Kíli and flared wide in recognition. The King stifled a sigh; he had hoped to escape the pending introduction to Kivi without having to reveal his true identity. But, that was clearly not going to happen, if the little dwarfling had any chance whatsoever to share his revelation. He had to wonder, though, how the dwarfling knew...

"Aren't you in charge of the armory today?" Bard brought Kíli back to the present and he looked quickly away from Kivi's nephew to follow the course of the conversation.

Bard had his arms folded over his chest and was eyeing Bain sternly from down the long length of his nose. Bain shifted uncertainly on his feet and admitted quietly -

"Yes, sir."

"And you just _gave_ two under-aged dwarves a bow and arrow?"

Bain's head bowed down toward the swept wooden floor beneath him, his expression duly apologetic.

"Yes, sir."

"Which one of you barbarians asked Master Bain for a bow?" Kivi interjected with a fierce look from her nephew at her side, to the other dwarfling now fidgeting next to Jarvi.

There was a long pause, before Jarvi's young charge piped up.

"It was me, _**Täti**_ ," the little trouble-maker looked up from the floor and Kíli was shocked to see that the second dwarfling looked _exactly_ like the first. [“ _Aunt/Auntie_ ”]

 _Twins!_ he realized with a jolt; twins were exceedingly rare among the dwarrow.

To the best of his knowledge, a multiple birth hadn't occurred in Durin's line for over 200 years. It was hard enough for a dwarrow mother to give birth to _one_ dwarfling, never mind _two_. At once.

Something else Kivi had said fell into place.

 _She said 'niece' and 'nephew'..._ Kíli narrowed his eyes as he looked from one dwarfling to the other.

While it was true that dwarven men and women looked quite a lot alike (and especially so before their beards started to grow), the identical garb between the two dwarflings – miniature replicas of their aunt's clothing, minus the workman's tools – was puzzling, to say the least. On rare occasions, Kíli had seen adult dwarrow-dams, like Kivi, wearing trousers when they were in the mines or at the forge. But, dwarrow daughters were so rare that Kíli had never known a dwarrow-dam to _not_ dress her girl in skirts, as a way to proudly differentiate her rare daughter from all the boys that were sure to be tumbling about.

"No, I think not," Kivi finally broke the contemplative silence that had fallen on the room.

She looked sharply over at the dwarfling at her side and frowned disapprovingly.

"It was Keri, wasn't it?" she arched an eyebrow at said young dwarf in question.

Keri had the decency to finally bow his head and shuffle his feet nervously across the floor. He scowled at his bare feet (yet another surprise for Kíli) for several long minutes before finally muttering a petulant:

" _ **Kyllä, rouva**_."

"In Westron, Keri," Kivi prompted patiently; the dwarfling huffed impatiently, but obeyed.

"Yes, ma'am."

"'Yes, ma'am' _what_?"

"I was the one to ask Bain for a bow," Keri looked as he wanted to throw a tantrum; his face flushed bright red and he was clearly staring at the floor, not as an act of submission, but as an act of refusal to look his aunt in the eye.

Kíli felt the corners of his mouth twitch; he was strongly reminded of himself at that age, as he was a far more dedicated rapscallion than Fíli ever was. The thought of his older brother, however, made Kíli's heart feel as if were breaking into yet another jagged piece and his desire to smile faded.

"Bain, why would you do such a thing?" Bard interjected with an aggravated pinch of his nose.

"I told them to just shoot arrows into the old hay bale in the corner of the training ground. I didn't know Alfrid was there," Bain risked a furtive glance at his father and winced.

"Alfrid?" Bard dropped his hand from his nose and started, nonplussed, at his son, then at Kivi. "What does _Alfrid_ have to do with anything?"

"'Fraid one of our little dwarflings shot the ole' bastard," Jarvi answered cheerfully; he shook the shoulder of the boy (girl?) next to him.

"Where?" Bard asked faintly.

"In the knee," the red-headed Man all but chirped; Bard sighed heavily and hid his face behind one large hand.

Kíli chewed the inside of his cheek with a particular vigor, in order to keep from laughing. There was an accompanying snort-fit from the corner where Bofur had been sitting quietly out of the way; Kíli didn't dare look at his companion's face, or else he'd start laughing out loud. He'd had the misfortune of meeting Alfrid at the Midwinter's Festival, a few months before. The King's interaction with the local coward was brief, but it was long enough for Kíli to think that Alfrid quite _deserved_ an arrow to the knee.

"Which one of you shot him, anyway?" Kivi demanded a bit roughly; Kíli glanced at her and felt his lips twitch again when he saw that she was desperately trying not to giggle.

There was a long, guilty pause. Finally, Keri squirmed and offered up a surprisingly meek:

"Me."

Kivi rolled her eyes up toward the ceiling, as if beseeching Mahal.

"Of course it was you, Keri," her tone was one of completely contrived disappointment (not that young Keri would understand that); the dwarfling's shoulders dropped at the sound of her aunt's disapproval.

"Kal," Bard abruptly focused his attention at the mostly-silent dwarfling held tight against Jarvi's side.

"Yes, sir?" Kal's eyes went wide and round.

"What was your part in all of this?"

"Uh..." Kal looked down and kicked an imaginary speck of dust on the floor. "Um...well...uh...I kind of dared..." here he swallowed hard and stoutly refused to look at anything but the very tips of his dirty toes. "I...uh...dared Keri."

"Mahalpreserve us," Kivi rolled her eyes toward the heavens; Bard coughed, as if to cover a laugh.

"What'd you say to your sister, Kal?" Jarvi demanded in his distinctive rumble.

"He told me that I couldn't never shoot as good as _him_!" Keri jumped in before her brother could answer; she pointed right at Kíli and the young King could feel the tips of his ears turn red.

Thank the Father that they were hidden by his abundance of dark brown hair. He met the dwarfling's gaze; her chin was proudly raised and something like tears glimmered in the corners of her pale eyes. Clearly, she had been rather deeply affected by Kal's claims - although, Kíli couldn't quite figure out how she knew about his archery to be compared to him. He was also still trying to piece together the abrupt revelation that Keri was a _girl_.

 _She looks exactly like her brother!_ his head was spinning wildly as he eyed Kal, and then Keri, closely; twins were quite the novelty to him.

Kivi's voice - suddenly soft and wary - drew Kíli's eyes away from the dwarflings. The two stared at each other and the suspicion on the master mason's face was rather alarming.

"Who's 'him', Keri?" the look in Kivi's eyes, though, told Kíli that she already knew what the answer was.

He decided to take the situation in hand; the broad-shouldered dwarf stepped forward and inclined his head at Kivi in courtesy.

"King Kíli Thorinkin," one of his long bangs fell into his face and he shook his head slightly to coax it back to the side by his left ear. "It seems young Keri has sharp eyes," he glanced at Kivi's disapproving face (which rather confused him), to the dwarfling's wide eyes. "An indispensable quality in an archer."

The dwarfling's face lit up like a rare jewel in torchlight. Kivi, however, seemed to determined to disregard her niece's excitement and Kíli's existence. Now scowling, she turned stiffly toward Bard and asked what his verdict was for the children's actions.

If Bain was startled by the abrupt change in conversation, he didn't show it. He reached up and stroked his mustache thoughtfully for a moment, before pronouncing his judgment.

"Bain," he addressed his own son first. "Since you seem to think that weapons are toys, to be handed to children without supervision, I'm going to put you in charge of the youth combat training. I want you down on the training yard every day - sunrise to sunset. I do not necessarily discourage your intent to encourage Keri's interest," his eyes flickered toward the younger child and for just a second, Bard's eyes crinkled a bit at the corners. "And you were right to not leave your post in the armory. But, you should have said 'no', or told them to find an older child or an adult to oversee their activities. I would have gladly helped Keri, had one of you thought to ask - I expect you to do the same from now on."

"Yes, sir," Bain lifted his head and met his father's dark eyes with a meek nod of acceptance.

Bard nodded back and added -

"Go back and finish your duties in the armory today. I expect you on the training yard tomorrow morning."

"Yes, sir," Bain nodded one more time and then beat a hasty retreat out of the long-house's door.

That left Keri and Kal, who both stared at Bard with no small mixture of trepidation.

"Keri," the little dwarf quivered a bit as she was sternly addressed. "You will help Katrikki tend to Alfrid until he is healed. I admire your fighting spirit, as I admire it in your aunt," Bard softened his words with a slight smile at Kivi. "But, you need to learn that any weapon - even a bow and arrow - can cause harm, most especially if used thoughtlessly."

Keri looked less than thrilled at her punishment; she even looked, for a minute, like she was going to complain about having to help Alfrid. But, then she glanced up at her aunt, whose expression all but dared the dwarfling to protest, and the young girl lowered her head in defeat.

"Yes, Master Bard."

"Go now," Kivi nudged her gently toward the door. "Katrikki is more than likely already seeing to him at the _**chirurgeon**_ 's station."

Keri hung her head and turned to go, but not before sliding a shy glance Kíli's way. The King noticed and he forced a slight smile to his face and accompanied it by a playful wink. Keri brightened up considerably and scurried out of the Hall to obediently do as she was told.

Last, but not least, was Kal. Bard sighed heavily and shook his head slowly at the last remaining dwarfling.

"Young Master Kal...you should not tell your sister what she can and cannot do -"

"That's _my_ job," Kivi interjected firmly, with a thunderous glare down on her nephew's wheat-colored hair.

"So, I will leave your judgment in the hands of your aunt," Bard concluded smoothly, as if he had expected Kivi's interruption.

The Bowman crossed his arms back over his chest and calmly glanced over at Kivi.

"What you said to Keri was deeply disrespectful," Kivi scolded her nephew sharply. "I have raised you better than that. You will help Keri with Alfrid when Katrikki cannot be present," the master mason held her hand up sharply to cut off her nephew's abrupt attempt at protestation. "And you will spend any other time helping Bain train. If Katrikki allows Keri to go practice with a bow while Alfrid is otherwise occupied, then _you_ will help your sister."

Kal opened his mouth again and was promptly shut down by Jarvi's heavy hand on his thin shoulder.

"Do not argue," Jarvi shook his ruddy head in warning. "This is a fair judgment, Kal. Accept it gracefully."

The dwarfling sighed deeply, but then stomped out of the Hall to go follow his sister toward the chirurgeon's station. That left just the adults remaining, to make of each other what they would.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chirurgeon - a ye olde French word for surgeon/doctor; seemed an appropriate term for the feel of Tolkien's world.


	5. Off On the Wrong Foot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Kíli and Kivi don't see eye-to-eye...

“ _Some folk we never forget  
Some kind we never forgive.”_

“ **Song of the Lonely Mountain”**

**Neil Finn**

* * *

  **Thatrnurt (Tht) 'Afkalm 25th**

_(Saturday April 24th)_

**Dale**

* * *

 

 

The silence wasn't long, but it was profoundly uncomfortable. Something lingered in the air - an unspoken curiosity, an unspoken animosity. Then there was Bard, the neutral balance, who settled back on his stool and waited patiently for someone to break the silence.

Kivi tried not to look in the king's direction, but it was hard not to; he was not at all what she had expected. He did indeed have the look of the Northern Khazâd, with a taller-than-was-average-for-a-dwarf height, a more agile build, something of a definable waist above his wider hips, and a half-grown beard. He had kind eyes, too, though darkened by what looked to be a weariness that bruised the skin beneath his lashes. He was young, too, his face a bit weathered from exposure to the elements, but still quite unmarred by age.

When she had moved into the shadow of Erebor, lured by the promise of work, Kivi had heard about the Battle of the Five Armies that had ravaged the plains between Dale and the Mountain. She had heard about Thorin Oakenshield – then again, she had long known of the “crownless king”. She hadn't come to Dale simply for a means to support her late brother's twin dwarflings; she had come with the thought that perhaps she would approach Durin's Heir, as her brother had, in search of a boon on behalf of her beleaguered kin in the North.

What she had found out, shortly upon her arrival, was that Thorin Oakenshield, who had once spoken to her own brother, had died by the blade of his greatest enemy, a pale Orc who's name escaped her. He had left behind a single heir, this Kíli Thorinkin, who knew nothing of her or she of him. She had heard of his presence in Dale during the festivals that had fallen since her arrival, but had steered clear of the Lonely Mountain's king and his entourage, always busy with her work.

She had expected an older dwarf - one with the characteristic excess of facial hair for which the Longbeards were well renowned. She wasn't precisely expecting an _elder_ , with snow-white locks and wrinkled skin, but she also wasn't expecting a tired-eyed youth who could not possibly be any older than she was herself. This was not at all the ill-tempered, gold-obsessed, xenophobic, dour-souled Longbeard that was practically a stereotype among her own people.

No, the King Under the Mountain was surprisingly easy on the eyes and if his eyes told the truth about what lay within him, he was a thoughtful, observant soul. His expression, while carefully guarded, was far more open than Kivi would have assumed, which probably had something to do with the fact that most of his face was not hidden by a full-grown beard. Her eyes lingered on the thick, well-groomed hair that framed his face and fell over his shoulders; it was the rich burnt umber of a _**Losrandir**_ 's summer coat. The comparison made her heart ache and as the two eyed each other silently for several long moments, she felt something within her threaten to break. The losses she had endured threatened suddenly to overcome her and she felt her cheeks flush in what the dwarven king would certainly mistake for a maidenly blush. At that thought, she huffed under her breath and turned sharply on her heel, as if to leave.

"Oi!" Bofur suddenly made an accounting of himself; Kivi tried to hide her surprise, as she had not noticed him sitting so quietly in the corner of the room.

For a moment, engineer and mason seemed both frozen in their respective spots. But then, Bofur swung his legs off of the bags of grain that he'd been using as a lounge and stood up.

"If you're of the North," he waved a half-gloved hand in Kivi's startled direction. "What House do you call kin?"

Kivi blinked, then frowned; she suddenly felt trapped. There was, however, no way for her to gracefully avoid the direction the conversation was suddenly taking. She couldn't very well _lie_ to this new dwarf, or ignore his question in the presence of his king. She took a deep breath, slid a glance over at Jarvi, who's nod was almost imperceptible.

“Thulin,” she answered abruptly. “I am a Stiffbeard.”

“A mason?” Bofur pressed.

Kivi knew where this was going and there was no way to avoid it. She resisted the urge to bolt for the door.

“Yes,” her answer was terse.

There was a brief, intensely uncomfortable silence as Bofur considered this revelation. Finally, his eyes narrowed and the ends of his strange hat quivered in the beginning stages of indignation.

"The King,” his eyes flickered over toward Kíli and then back to her. “Sent out criers to all the dwarven cities of the West not twelve months ago, to gather as many masons as could be had from Ered Luin and the Iron Hills. Surely, if you've been here long enough to rebuild as much of Dale as ya' 'ave, you've heard of this.”

Kivi resisted the urge to fidget beneath the four sets of eyes that now watched every flicker of emotion that crossed her face. She could not lie, without at least Bard or Jarvi knowing and though she doubted that they would call her out, she didn't want to act so dishonorably in their presence.

“Yes,” she finally crossed her arms over her chest, in a frustrated gesture of defiance and uncertainty. “I knew of Erebor's need.”

“For how long?” Kíli now spoke, his voice low; Kivi glowered at him in an attempt to hide the realization that he suspected something _more_ to her reluctant answers.

There was nothing she could do, so she told the truth as succinctly as she knew how.

“I worked on the sea walls of Dol Amroth before I traveled here. I heard of the King's criers before I ever left.”

“So...you would ignore the request of your _kin_...but you'll help a _Man_ rebuild his city?" Bofur's face was slowly turning red beneath his distinctly styled mustache and trimmed goatee.

"Well, thank you, Bofur," Bard answered before Kivi could, his tone dry. "I only killed Smaug. Nothing of consequence."

"Ach, I mean no disrespect, Master Bard," the dwarf had the decency to grimace at his guffaw and glance apologetically over at the future King of Dale.

He took a deep breath, as if to calm himself. Kivi could think of nothing in her defense and Jarvi was remaining unhelpfully silent behind her. Bard looked bemused at the situation and she didn't _dare_ look at King Kíli - she could practically _feel_ his dark eyes boring into her as he studied her profile.

"So, allow me to reiterate," Bofur's accent thickened considerably as his indignation grew. "Ya' knew of 'Erebor's needs' before you ever came here. Then ya' travel from one city of Men, to another. Ya' begin working for Master Bard – no disrespect, good sir,” he paused and offered Bard an ameliorating glance, before rounding on Kivi again. “Knowin' full well that _we_ could use ya're skills. Ya're a _Stiffbeard_ for Mahal's sake, a master of master masons, if the stories of ya're House are true. Ya look to Erebor every day...an' _this_ is how ya' answer the cries of ya're kin?"

To discredit or belittle Bofur's rather justified frustration would have been dishonorable. It was Kivi's turn to take a deep breath, as she decided to fight blunt honest truth with blunt honest truth.

"You Longbeards may be my kin, but I know _nothing_ of you, nor you of me," Kivi spread her own feet wide and propped her fists definitely on her hips, as she squared off against Bofur. When I left Dol Amroth, I chose to travel to these Lonely lands on my _own_ terms, for my _own_ reasons,” she paused for a breath, but Jarvi interjected; what he said shocked her into silence.

“There is trouble in the North, in our home of Kivi Torni,” her cousin's voice seemed to rumble through the wooden floors beneath their boots, his voice was so deep. “We left that home because of it, because of dwarven lords who thinly disguise their orders as requests, and who would force more obligation upon us than we are willing to bear.”

Now Kivi could feel Bard's eyes studying the back of her head. She hadn't said anything about why she showed up at Dale's broken gates, with an odd assembly of companions and two young dwarflings. The Man, in fact, had shown a polite lack of curiosity about her origins, but she knew that he had questions. Bard was a smart man – smarter than most, Kivi reckoned – and it did not take a genius to see that her clothes, her speech, her appearance was noticeably different from those of the Broadbeams, Longbeards, and Firebeards who had begun to settle beneath the Mountain and to trade in the streets of Dale. Jarvi had now, most likely, stoked the flames of the Man's suspicions.

“When I came to Dale at the new year, I chose to observe you sons of Durin, to learn about your ways and your king, without immediately binding the honor of my word to your terms and conditions. However, as you can see, I have two young mouths to feed, two young bodies to cloth, and roof to keep above them. I had to work. Men, I have found, are surprisingly straightforward with their contracts, at least in terms of labor, so I accepted Master Bard's request to rebuild Dale while I considered yours," Kivi stared hard at Bofur, as if daring him to object to her methods and means, before turning her challenging gaze toward Kíli. "My intentions have remained practical and honorable all along. Surely, Your Majesty, would not begrudge a stranger to your House the wisdom of looking before she leaped?"

"I _would_ begrudge your unwarranted suspicion of us," Kíli countered quickly; he pulled his shoulders back proudly.

"'Unwarranted'?" Kivi's voice rose sharply and she spun away from Bofur, to stalk angrily toward Kíli, her boots thudding ominously on the floorboards. "You know _nothing_ about me, Your _Majesty_ ," she all but spat the title out, as she stopped just an arm's length away from Kíli. "And I know nothing of _you_."

Kíli was quite proud of his self-control. Before the loss of his uncle and brother, and his acceptance of Erebor's crown, he would have gotten right back into Kivi's face and given her a piece of his mind. But, Balin _had_ managed to make some headway in getting it through Kíli's thick head that impulsiveness was _not_ a quality that ought to be possessed in spades by a king. He chewed the inside of his lip - a habit he had started, when trying to stop himself from snapping out his most immediate thoughts - and narrowed his eyes in warning at his unexpected adversary.

"You're right," he practically ground the words out through gritted teeth. "I do indeed know nothing about you. However, that also means that I - and my people - have never done _anything_ to you to deserve such distrust," some of Kíli's control slipped and he clenched his fists reflexively. “Your cousin says that you have traveled through the West to escape the demands of dishonorable lords. Is that so, or are you simply making excuses for a personal lack of honor?”

Kivi's face flushed a brilliant scarlet and her own control started to fade. Her eyes flashed and in other circumstances - in another time - Kíli would have taken a step back in surprise. She looked like she was about to slap him across the face.

"Kivi!" Jarvi's voice was all but thunder on the mountain; the volume and tone of her cousin's warning stopped Kivi from lashing out (verbally or physically) - both actions that she would have regretted later, if not instantly. " _He knows nothing of us, nor our past. Don't punish him for wounds he never created._ "

She didn't move, didn't turn away from Kíli. The two practically shot arrows at each other with their eyes, and both of their shoulders were tensed for a fight, their fists clenched hard at their sides. But, Kivi bit her tongue; her jaw worked furiously as she forced the words she wanted to shout back down into the depths of her throat. Jarvi took the moment to drop some of the volume of his voice and added almost gently -

" _Perhaps you have wrongly judged their character, cousin. Admit that and move on."_

Kivi wanted to scream in frustration, but unfortunately, both Kíli and Jarvi had valid points. Even Bofur; nothing had been said so far by any of them that hadn't been said (albeit, much differently) by Jarvi, Etsijä, Katrikki, and Seppä in the last year.

She was as proud as any dwarf, but Kivi had also been broken - badly - at the cruel hands of the Ironfist lord, Synkkä, who had invaded her homeland, killed her people, and murdered her parents right in front of her before she had even had a chance to celebrate her transition into womanhood. It had been 22 years since she had escaped Synkkä's interest – his _lust_ – with the help of Jarvi and her older brother, Viljo. But, in all that time, Kivi hadn't been able to bring herself to trust any of the Khazâd that she had encountered in her travels through the West. In fact, she had made a concerted (and fairly successful) attempt to avoid much interaction with any of the dwarrow she had encountered up until now.

This unexpected meeting, however, had now forced her hand. She had felt her stomach sinking when she began to realize who Bard's long-haired, short-bearded – and admittedly handsome – guest really was. Initially, like Jarvi, she had joyously assumed that he was one of her House, a son of Thulin, come to find her, perhaps. To find out that he was none other than the King of Erebor had been a bit of a blow - distrust had immediately crept into Kivi's thoughts and disappointment colored her actions.

And, no small amount of embarrassment. She had hoped to rebuild Dale in peace - the reconstruction, if kept up at the same pace that she had set since new year, could be completed in another year. Then, she had thought, she would have been able to sufficiently observe the Erebor dwarrow as they went about their business through Dale - mostly merchants, although she had spotted the odd soldier or artisan wandering about through the days - and would be able to make her own informed decision about whether or not the King Under the Mountain was a man worthy of her craft.

It would seem now, however, that what Seppä had warned would happen...had happened.

 _“What you're doin' is shady at best and dishonorable at it's worst. You really think that you can rebuild a city of Men beneath Erebor's very shadow, and_ not _attract attention. The Longbeards are known for being stubborn - not stupid._

Seppä had gone on to swear (on more than one occasion) that Kivi's equivocation would surely be found out.

“ _An' mark my words, no king is going to look favorably on that. You're all but showin' him your bare arse_ _.”_

The black-haired smithy's words rang in her ears, as Kivi took a deep, steadying breath, and spat at Kíli through equally clenched teeth:

"I have excellent reasons for being suspicious of _any_ man's intentions, dwarrow or otherwise," her eyes flashed, despite her best effort to sound ameliorating. "Perhaps in time, Your Majesty, I can come to trust you enough to explain myself further," the very idea terrified her, but Kivi swallowed roughly and continued doggedly on. "But, today is not that day, nor was it the day that I chose to rebuild Dale over yon Erebor. You should well remember, from this day and forward, that I _not_ a daughter of Durin and I am not _yours_ to command."

She lifted her chin proudly, eyes daring Kíli to counter her challenge, and she could hear Jarvi all but groaning under his breath behind her.

" _We need an ally, Kivi...not another enemy_!"

For a moment - for just a moment, Kivi thought about biting her tongue and sacrificing some of her pride on behalf of her people, who were still unwillingly enslaved to the Ironfists. It was what her brother would have done, what he had _tried_ to do when defying her demands and traveling to Ered Luin to answer Thorin Oakenshield's call for the seven Houses. But, then Kíli opened his mouth...

"I am willing to provide you with whatever you so desire, if you would just _help_ your own kin," the young King finally lost control of his frustration.

"You are _not_ my kin!" Kivi shot back; she took two steps forward and jabbed her finger squarely into the King's chest.

Kíli's eyes went big and he looked down at her hand and then back up at her. His personal boundaries hadn't been breached since he was crowned. Well, except for his mother; Dis was not a dwarrow-dam who took 'no' for an answer when it came to forcing her motherly affection upon her sole remaining son.

There was the sound of a scuffle to the side of them; Kíli didn't dare break eye contact with Kivi, as her furious, icy eyes were unexpectedly riveting. Kivi didn't look over either; there was a muffled curse in Bofur's voice, so the two adversaries assumed that either Bard or Jarvi had restrained him. Most likely, Bard, since there wasn't any further protest, besides the scraping of boots across the floor.

" _He_ is my kin," Kivi jerked her other thumb behind her in her cousin's general direction. "My _kin_ are Men of the North - the Lossoth. My _kin_ are the Ice-Elves, the Avari. My _kin_ are the Umli, the descendants of Dwarf and Men. My _kin_ are those I have grown up with, those that I have called 'friend', those who have helped my House thrive in the frozen earth," the irate dwarf-maiden poked her finger into the center of Kíli's chest multiple times for emphasis. _"_ My _kin_ are those that the Stiffbeards have depended onto survive, to thrive, and to tame what we _all_ could of the harshest lands of Middle Earth."

The scuffling to the side grew more frantic and Bofur was starting to growl, apparently beyond reasonable articulation. There was a sharp exhale of breath and Kivi guessed that Bard had gotten an elbow to the stomach for all his trouble. Without looking away from Kivi, Kíli threw up his hand toward Bofur, his palm flat, fingers pointed up, in a silent, but unmistakable command to stay put.

"You value the kinship of Elves and Men over the Khazâd ?" Kíli demanded quietly; there was a hint of wonder in his voice, but Kivi did not know him to note it.

"I value the kinship of _all_ the races of the North who have depended on us, and we on them, to survive," Kivi hissed; she had moved unintentionally closer to Kíli until their noses were mere inches away from one another. "We have a saying in the North, among all our races - ' _You can fall through the ice on your own, but you cannot save yourself_ '."

Kíli paused for effect, before looking Kivi straight in the eye and very quietly answering back:

"Then you are a hypocrite, Kivi Journeyman. Because your kin - and yes, we _are_ kin - of Durin's House have fallen through the ice."

A feather could have been heard falling to the floor in the moments after Kíli's soft retort; Master and King stared hard at each other, their individual thoughts a mystery to each other. Then, without warning, Kivi swiveled abruptly her heel and stalked out of Bard's Hall without so much as a glance over her shoulder.

* * *

 

Kíli fell back into his chair after Kivi and her cousin had left. He leaned his head back, covered his eyes with his bare forearm, and groaned.

"That went well," he mumbled.

"I-what-why," Bofur was practically beside himself and sputtered incoherently for several minutes. "Why did you let her _talk_ to you like that? She _touched_ you!"

"It's not like I'm here in an official capacity, Bofur," Kíli let his forearm fall back to his side and he glanced wearily over at his old friend with a shrug. "She treated me like an equal - quite frankly, that was a refreshing change of pace."

"She blatantly disrespected you!" Bofur insisted hotly.

"She was well within her right to do so," Kíli disagreed. "Let's be frank, Bofur - she owes the crown of Erebor no loyalty whatsoever. If she decided she wanted to come to Dale to judge our worth before making her decision, and to rebuild Bard's future kingdom in the interim, then that's entirely in her right."

"But -!"

Kíli held up his hand again and shook his head, his jaw set in a stubborn fashion that Bofur knew only too well.

"What do you think, Bard?" the young dwarf turned his head and considered the Man who had remained mostly silent during the exchange between the three dwarrow.

"I think that the two of you made right asses of yourselves," Bard was, if anything, brutally honest; it was part of why Kíli liked him so much. "You were far too aggressive and argumentative, Bofur," the Man squinted sternly at the dwarf in question, before he turned to Kíli. "And _you_ need to choose your words more wisely before you speak. Kivi is a proud woman and I am beginning to suspect that she has had a past even more harrowing than your own. I am also beginning to suspect that she carries rank and privilege among her own people. I would tread gently, Kíli."

"Well, it's not like I've had much experience in handling such...such..." he fumbled for the right word and waved his hand dismissively in frustration. "Such delicate negotiations."

Bard barked out loud in a terse, sarcastic laugh. He reached over and slapped the young king on the knee, the corners of his mouth twisted up in a wry smile.

"It has more to do with the fact that you clearly have _no_ experience in dealing with women."

"Yes, I do," Kíli bristled.

Bard just laughed again and shook his head.

"Striking a business negotiation with a woman is a far cry from trying to woo her into bed, Kíli," the Bowman's dark eyes twinkled.

"For some that could be the same thing," Bofur muttered and Bard reached forward to cuff the impertinent engineer about his ear.

"You know what I mean, Master Dwarf," the Bowman rolled his eyes as he settled back on his stool.

"Well...dissecting what we've done wrong is only helpful up to a point," Kíli ran the fingers of one hand through his long hair in frustration. "Any _productive_ suggestions about what to do moving forward?"

"I would ask why you're so determined to win Kivi's services, but I suppose I need only look at my own walls to know the answer to that," Bard sighed; he then leaned his whole body toward Kíli and propped his elbows on his knees.

"My friend," he reached out with one hand and patted Kíli's knee. "Give Master Kivi her space. She will not respond to arrogance, or gestures of dominance, or to even the faintest hint of control. She is _not_ a dwarf of Erebor, nor a daughter of Durin. In a way, she is quite correct - she is _not_ your kin. I dare say, she's an entirely different type of dwarf and not one that any of you fools have ever encountered before," Bard patted Kíli's knee one last time and offered the scowling King an encouraging, if crooked, grin. "My best advice to you, Kíli? _Ask_ , don't _tell –_ and don't, for the love of the Valar, send another dwarf to ask on your behalf. She met you as an equal. Give her the same courtesy, Your Majesty."

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Losrandir – reindeer.


	6. Of A Home Left Behind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Kivi tells Bard about the North...

“ _Haven't seen the back of us yet  
We'll fight as long as we live.”_

“ **Song of the Lonely Mountain”**

**Neil Finn**

* * *

 

**Ibriznurt (Ib) 'Afkalm 26th**

_(Sunday April 25 th)_

**Dale**

* * *

 

 

The mission to make Kivi see sense began with Bard.

"Morning, _**Mestari**_ ," the Bowman said, pleasantly enough, as he strolled casually up toward Kivi's work station. [“ _Master_ ”]

Her work crews hadn't yet reported for the day; the sun was barely above the horizon and full light wouldn't flood the nooks and crevasses of Dale for at least another hour. Kivi, however, was ever early to bed and early to rise; as the chief supervisor of the city's rebuilding, there was always plenty of work to be done before the crews shuffled up to their meeting point, yawning widely, still half-asleep.

She hovered over her makeshift table and scribbled notes to herself in a large, oil-stained, and weather-beaten leather journal. Every so often, she would tuck her quill behind her ear and squint hard at the almost haphazard array of blueprints spread out before her. When pausing to consider and think, she would raise a sturdy, steaming, green-glazed ceramic mug to her lips and sip at its contents absent-mindedly. There was a bowl perched just within her reach, filled with a peculiar, red-tinted porridge, the likes of which Bard hadn't ever seen. He eyed it thoughtfully and then over at Kivi's mug, out which was emanating a deep and smoky scent into the still-crisp morning air.

"Mornin'," Kivi answered gravely from around the rim of her mug; her blue eyes tracked Bard's movement and the Bowman knew that she already suspected the reason for his unexpected visit.

He decided to ignore the obvious for the moment.

"An interesting breakfast," he waved a hand casually at Kivi's wooden bowl and glazed mug.

"Not so, really," the mason glanced down at her red-tinted meal with a wry half-smile. "I suppose, then, that you've never had a porridge made out of _**cowberries**_."

"Cowberries?" Bard blinked in surprise and leaned over the table to peer at the contents of Kivi's wooden bowl. "You can eat them, then?"

"Let me guess," Kivi didn't even try to hide the laughter in her voice. "You Men only give them to cattle?"

"Well...yes," Bard's dark hair moved slightly against the side of his throat as he shook his head in surprise; equally dark eyes rose up to meet the dwarf-maid's amused face. "I was always told that they were poisonous - for Men, at least," his gaze dropped again to consider the innocuous bowl of porridge. "Because of the vibrant color and all."

Kivi gave up on being stoic. Her laughter rolled against the stones around them with a gentle peel, the timbre of it husky and rich, yet unmistakably feminine. She shook her head in ill-disguised mirth and the sun rising slowly above the tower behind them caught the scarlet strands woven naturally amid her golden hair.

"What is it with the folks of the West and their aversion to bright colors?" she chortled, eyes sparkling like chipped crystal. "We call them _puolukka_ in the North and in my southern travels, I thought they had disappeared into my childhood, a fond memory," her full lips curled upward in a cheerful smile as she picked up the bowl with one hand and offered it to Bard. "But, imagine my surprise when I traveled here to Dale and found whole bunches of them growing in the cracks and crevasses of the ruins that overlook this valley. They are a treasured fruit of my kin and grow so plentiful in the Northern Waste, that whole fields will be filled with scarlet berries for as far as the eye can see. Please, try."

If it was one thing Bard had learned in his nearly two years of dealing with dwarves, it was that one did not decline their generosity. He shared Kivi's smile, reached over across the table, and cupped his larger hands around the smooth sides of the bowl. It was still warm, the heat soaking through his bare palm and soothing the callouses on his fingers. He picked up the spoon that was propped up against the side of the dish and took a tentative bite.

"Hmm..." the Bowman mumbled around a mouthful as he rolled the porridge across his tongue and swallowed. "It's quite tart."

"It is," Kivi couldn't stop a friendly chuckle. "Most of my people put more sugar into the porridge than I do - Seppä, for example. But, I like it a little tart for a morning repast. Wakes up the senses."

Bard took another bite, as if to confirm his opinion of the matter. He squinted off into the distance as he chewed slowly and thoughtfully.

"I like it," he finally determined and handed the bowl back to Kivi with an easy grin. "You will have to share the recipe with Sigrid. It would indeed make a good breakfast."

"It's easy enough to make - Tilda could make it as well, I wager," Kivi all but beamed with the Man's approval. "Or you, or Bain," she shrugged with a wide smile. "It's nothing more than rough-ground grain, mashed cowberries, sugar, and a little cream."

"Simple enough, then," Bard agreed, with an appraising eye cast down on the brightly colored porridge.

"Simple, but hardy," Kivi picked up her mug and sipped at its contents with an air of particular satisfaction. "It's what we folk of the North do best."

"It would seem that your kin are people of great humility...and even greater skill," Bard lifted his eyes toward the scaffolds built up against the nearby walls and the half-way finished arch between them.

"I assure you, our humility is but practicality. The odds of survival are considerably higher when one watches her tongue," Kivi snorted into her drink, but her eyes still twinkled with good will. "As for our skill..." she set her mug down gently on the table in front of her and traced a finger carefully around its rim. "That, too, comes from sheer practicality. Like all dwarrow, we dig into the earth, but the wilds of our homeland are frozen for more months of the year than they are green, and the earth is much harder there than here. Wood is fragile and catches fire too easily in the dry, snowy air; in some places it is also quite scarce and put to better use _as_ firewood, for our hearths, for our life heat," she spoke softly, her eyes fixed to the walls as well.

She seemed to be in something of a trance as she recalled the ways of the Stiffbeards; Bard hung on every word. This was more than he had _ever_ heard Kivi speak about herself, her people, or her homeland. It would seem that Jarvi's revelation from the day before had loosened some of her reluctance to speak of her past.

"Like all dwarrow, my kin also burrow into the bones of this world. But, we do not mine so deeply as the others. Instead, we depend on stone for our survival - stone supports and shelters us. Without it, our ancestors would have died long ago, in Thulin's age. Stone is integral to our survival and so, we have learned to master our craft," Kivi glanced solemnly toward Bard, who met her gaze with equal intensity. "Our stone must support the weight of our kin, it must shelter us and all who come to us for survival during _**S**_ _ **hulukadrân**_ , or the Deep Winter. It must bear the weight of mountains covered almost always in layers of hardened ice and snow. It must protect us from the cold drakes and the storms. One mistake made by the mallet of a mason can kill hundreds of my kin as swiftly and as cruelly as the frost. Ours is a sacred duty, a matter of truest trust," she glanced down and briefly brushed her fingers against the iron mallet that was laying dutifully at the edge of the table by her left hand. "We never forget that."

"So, Dale is in the best of hands, then," Bard had never once questioned Kivi's skill, but it still buoyed his hopes to hear her speak of how integral her craft really was to her own identity.

"It would be in the best of hands, if _any_ Stiffbeard mason were here," Kivi shook her head, braid bouncing, as cautious as ever of praise that might single her out. "Dale is presently in good hands, because I am a Stiffbeard, but not by any virtue of my own skill."

It was this humility that intrigued Bard - not because he felt it was disingenuous, as he had observed equal displays of humble evasion to praise from Kivi's four adult companions, but because he suspected that, in Kivi's case, it was a product of her secrecy. Bard, as an archer and a long-time boatman of Laketown, had a keen instinct when it came to others - instincts sharpened by a life on the fickle water and a life with the fickle Master. He had known from the very day he met her, that Kivi Journeyman had much about her self hidden away. That intrigued Bard, but he was wise enough not to pry. She had never lied to him, or even so much as quibbled in the time she'd spent among the Men of Dale. This was enough to urge Bard to keep his tongue and curiosity in check - the dwarf-maid would tell him in her own time and probably in abrupt, unexpected revelations, like this one.

He couldn't help poking, though, ever so lightly.

"Seppä would seem to disagree," Bard softened his words with a roguish smile and a sidelong glance at his short friend.

Kivi had the reaction he expected - she sighed heavily and rolled her eyes skyward.

"Seppä has high expectations - if you haven't noticed, he's a most unrealistic Dwarf."

Bard just laughed and countered with an easy:

"He said your mother was a Stone-Singer and could shape the most elegant structures, that could withstand the weight of ages."

"My mother _was_ special," a great sadness darkened the clarity of Kivi's eyes and Bard felt a sudden regret for bringing up what was apparently a topic of grief. "And she was indeed a Stone-Singer - like her father before her and her grandmother before him," the gold-and-copper strands of her hair framed the curves of her face and only seemed to accentuate how very young she was.

 _Too young to lose a mother,_ Bard realized with a pang of empathy; he had and still did think the same of his own two daughters.

"But," Kivi carried on, her voice much softer now, with memory and pain. "She died young and I was young, as well - too young, in fact, to have learned much of the great knowledge she had to pass down. I have learned what I have mostly from my early youth and from her journal," her hand drifted to the sturdy, well-worn journal on the table between her and the Bowman. "And from an Ice Elf," the dwarf-maiden's lips curled up wryly at the corners. "Which is the height of irony, really," she finally lifted her eyes and offered a chagrined little smile to Bard. "Since it was _my_ ancestors who taught _Katrikki_ 's forefathers how to shape the stones to their will."

Bard's eyebrows threatened to fly off of his forehead in surprise.

"But, isn't Katrikki a healer…?"

"She is," Kivi chuckled softly and shook her head; her braid bounced brightly against the front her bright blue tunic. "But, Katrikki is also the daughter of a master mason, as even Elves have the need to shape the stones. And Jarvi is a mason, too - he has had a great role in teaching me the secrets of our people."

"Isn't he a...ah…" Bard paused, wondering what was the most delicate way to state the obvious.

"A half-dwarf?" Kivi's brilliant blue eyes glanced slyly up and over toward her taller friend. "That would be the colloquial way of describing an Umli heritage. Although," she pursed her lips thoughtfully and tilted her head to the side. "Intermarriage between the Stiffbeards and other races of the North is neither forbidden or unusual, so long as certain expectations are followed," she shrugged and a winsome smile finally brightened her face. "After all, Jarvi _is_ my cousin."

"Your..." Bard thought quickly. "Father's nephew, then?"

"Yes. Jarvi is the youngest son of my father's youngest sister," Kivi's face darkened again, but not quite so severely as before. "When he reached his age of Choice, he asked to be apprenticed to my father. Jarvi, if you haven't noticed, is cheerful and…" Kivi wrinkled her nose comically, her eyes twinkling teasingly. "Well, quite _loud_. Far too loud for the dour Umli. He fit in much better with us Stiffbeards and he had many years to learn my father's craft. I have, in many respects, learned far more of my father's skills, than my mother's."

"Surely your father was a great mason in his own right," Bard didn't mean for his words to sound quite so obsequious and he winced a bit to himself.

Kivi just threw her head back and laughed.

"No, not really," she grabbed her braid and threw it over her shoulder, so it could swing freely across her back; she winked playfully at the Bowman, to ease some of his embarrassment. " _Isä_ had many duties to fulfill that had nothing to do with masonry, so he could not devote himself to his craft as much my mother could. He was solid - a true and masterful mason, to be sure. But, he was no Stone-Singer nor Stone-Master, and he would tell you that himself, were he here to do so." [“ _Father_ ”]

Her smile, again, turned a little sad, so Bard tried to push the conversation past such sad remembrances.

"Your companions all seem to think that _you'll_ become a Stone-Singer yourself, one day," his dark eyes watched Kivi closely, in the hope that the sorrow on her face might fade again.

"Perhaps," Kivi shrugged, all practicality and humility again; she didn't quite meet Bard's gaze and fiddled absently with the corner of one parchment blueprint. "But, they have not yet begun to sing to me; my skill is not so great as that."

"Stones...sing?" Bard nearly gave himself whiplash as he turned to peer curiously at the silent walls above them.

"The earth is a living thing, you understand," Kivi's voice was reverent and firm, her words assured by a deep-seated knowledge that the Man before her could only marvel over. "The soil, the grass," she waved at the unremarkable dust and dirt at their feet. "They are but the skin. The rocks, the stones, the gems? They are the earth's bones and they whisper their secrets as surely as the wind above them."

Bard watched Kivi with a mixture of disbelief and awe. He had never heard such things - much less from a dwarf. In fact, he was fairly certain this was the longest conversation he had ever _had_ with one of the Khazâd - Kíli notwithstanding.

"They don't sing like sparrows or crickets, mind you. But, I remember my mother saying once that each stone, each metal, each bone of the earth had its own harmony when struck with chisel and mallet. She could carve so certainly and so swiftly, that she could make the stones sing as she worked. I watched her once, when she didn't know I was there, when I was a dwarfling younger than even Kari or Kal," Kivi stared straight ahead at Dale's resurrected southern wall; her gaze never wavered, nor her voice, but Bard could hear her loss all the same. "She sang to them - she sang _with_ them, with the rhythm of her tools, and with the steady beat of her iron against the granite. It was the most beautiful thing I have ever heard.

"I can, perhaps, Master Bowman, claim to be a _Mestari_ among the worlds of Men," slowly, Kivi turned her fiery heard toward Bard and looked solemnly up at him. "But I could not claim to be a _Mestari_ among my own people, within my own homeland. And I am certainly no Stone-Singer."

There was a long, painful silence between the two of them. Finally, Bard took a deep breath and sighed heavily into the brightening morning.

"But," he shoved his thumbs into the sturdy width of his belt. "Dale is in good hands."

"You have my word," Kivi spoke with all the sincerity of an oath-making.

Bard chewed the inside of his lip for a moment as he debated on whether to leave the conversation amiably at that...or to press his luck. A harsh squawk and abrupt flurry of wings distracted him and he jerked his head up toward the sky at the same time Kivi did. A pair of energetic ravens flapped and fluttered over the top of a newly rebuilt guard tower to the right of the reconstructed gate. The caws of the two birds echoed through Dale's lower streets, startling more than their fair share of sleepy workmen, yawning merchants, and bleary-eyed beggars.

"Ugh," Kivi made a noise of deepest disgust as she lowered her head and reached for her still-steaming mug.

"Have something against ravens?" Bard tried to make light of the situation and laughed easily as the ravens' din began to fade the further they flew.

"They're carrion birds," Kivi pinched her lips together, as if she had just taken a bite of unsweetened cowberry. "Foul and loud," her eyes flashed fiercely at Bard, as if daring the man to contradict her. "Omens of death and war. What king in his right mind would make such dark portents his _toteemi_?"

"His what?" Bard shook his head, confused.

"His…" Kivi waved an exasperated hand in the air between them as she searched for the right word. "His _emblem_. His... _symbol_ , I suppose."

"Ah," the Bowman glanced upward again, at the now raven-less sky.

As a curious aside, he added:

"Do the lords of the Stiffbeards have a...ah... _toteemi_?" he forced his mouth to work around the foreign word and was quite pleased to hear that it came out not half as horribly as he would have thought.

"Theirs is the Pale Owl, the _kalpea pöllö_ ," Bard did _not_ miss the wistfulness that crept into Kivi's voice. "They are noble creatures, the chiefs of the North's birds of prey. They have wingspans nearly as long as a dwarf is tall. They are graceful and silent - keepers of secrets and ancient wisdoms."

"Quite the opposite of ravens then, I imagine," Bard offered her an encouraging half-smile.

"Indeed," Kivi quirked her lips in something that her companion couldn't decide was a smirk or a grimace.

Silence, again.

Bard took another deep breath, as Kivi took another deep sip of her drink.

"I have never heard you speak so freely about your people, your homeland."

The Bowman had quite startled himself by this admission and he blinked owlishly at Kivi. For her part, the master mason's face softened into an expression that was almost self-conscious.

"You are an easy audience," she shrugged and cast her eyes down, as if suddenly shy. "And you have caught me on a morning where I am, perhaps, more nostalgic than I would be normally."

"You are an unusual dwarf," Bard observed gently; his gaze never strayed from Kivi's down-turned face. "Seppä, too. You two as secretive as any dwarf I've ever met, but you both have offered a hand of friendship to me, my family, and the people of Dale. You build our walls, he builds our smithies. I have never met dwarrow so willing to help those not of their own race."

"That is because the Stiffbeards have learned a lesson that the other Khazâd have yet to fully accept," Kivi looked up at that, her face proud and - Bard could think of no other word - regal. "We have learned to exist in a world that would kill us in our very sleep. We are dependent on each other – and _all_ honorable races of the North. We have learned to be interdependent, for there is no other way to live in the Wastes.

"The Lossoth - the Men - hunt the whales and other great beasts of the icy seas. They trade oil, food, skins with us. The Umli are master hunters and herders - it is they who taught my forefathers how to be invisible amid the snow, how to find food, to herd the horned _losrandir_ , how to train the loyal _**reikikoriat**_ to pull our sleds. The Ice-Elves have taught us how to heal our wounds, what dangers to avoid in herb and berry, how to read the sky, the stars, the weather. And in turn, we have taught them all how to carve stone, how to build, how to tend fires that never wane. Thulin, our _**Vanha Isä**_ , swore an oath that we have solemnly kept to this very age – from the first day of _**Iklaladrân**_ , to the last day of _Shulukadrân_ , for winter's five months, we welcome any wanderer into our halls. Be they Man, Elf, or Dwarf, they are welcome to partake of our hearth fires and the safety of our stones. This hospitality is the cornerstone of all that my people are," Kivi explained solemnly, her husky voice filling the balmy summer air with memories of ice, hoar, and frozen winter nights. "In the North, the word 'kin' extends far beyond the Khazâd. We are _all_ kin, for we cannot survive without each other."

Bard could not help but be awed by the fierce nobility of Kivi's words. She was as proud to be a daughter of Thulin, as any dwarf of Erebor was to be a son of Durin. There was a depth of honor, a veneration of memory that grounded her words in a way that no Man of Dale could claim of his or her own histories. Bard felt oddly to compelled to bow his head respectfully to her, as respectfully as if she were Kíli himself.

"You honor me deeply with these stories of your homeland," tawny eyes met cerulean, solemnly and admiringly. "It is an honor to have you and your kin with us, Kivi Journeyman, and I will always, gladly, call you 'friend'," Bard paused and a subtle tension now slipped in between them.

He took a steadying breath and watched as Kivi read his body language. Her own shoulders pulled back and a slight frown marred her high, smooth forehead. They had come to the juncture of their conversation and they both sensed it, as strangely connected in thought and knowledge as if they had known each other intimately for decades. Bard swallowed hard and hoped he would not displease her with the question that now quite begged to be asked.

"But," he watched as Kivi's eyes now narrowed ever so subtly. "If you are so honor-bound to help rebuild the walls of Men," Bard motioned wide around them, never once breaking eye contact with the stocky mason. "Then why are you so hesitant to rebuild the halls of Durin?"

Anger crackled darkly through Kivi's eyes, altering the clarity there like sharp divides in broken ice. She lifted her chin proudly, haughtily, her demeanor now as unwavering as the very stones she carved.

"Because I am _not_ a daughter of Durin, for Kíli Thorinkin to order about as he likes."

"He's not _ordering_ you though," Bard fought the urge to reach up and rub his temples in exasperation; for all of Kivi's openness around him, she was as stereo typically obstinate as any dwarf he'd met. "He's _asking_."

"If the King Under the Mountain wishes to _request_ my assistance, then he can stop speaking through the mouths of others and ask me himself," Kivi's voice was now as sharp as her ever-present chisel. "I _might_ consider such a thing, should he climb off that accursed throne of his, and set aside his arrogance. But," she pursed her lips sourly. "I rather suspect the deserts of the _**Haradwaith**_ will freeze first."

"He _is_ a king, you know. The _high_ king, really, of the Khazâd, to my best understanding," Bard frowned and shifted his feet in frustration. "As such, it _is_ in his right to order and offer."

"There is a divide among the children of Mahal," Kivi stubbornly shook her head, unmoved by Bard's limited understanding of the Khazâd. "And Kíli Thorinkin should well know that. Durin's Sons may rule the West, but the heirs of Thulin rule the East. And so it has ever been. I am _not_ his to command."

Bard squirreled this revelation away in the back of his mind to bring to Kíli's attention later. While what Kivi claimed shocked the Bowman, he briefly mused that with as little understanding as he had of the dwarrow (and none at all about their Eastern kin), then it wasn't outside of the realm of possibility for Kivi's word to reinforce the dwarf-maiden's refusal to acquiesce.

And yet, Bard couldn't help feeling there was more…

"You speak of him as an equal. You treated him that way, as well," he eyed her thoughtfully, carefully.

To his surprise, Kivi showed no reaction to his subtle prod into the deeper depths of her identity. Her face was as impassive as the mountain beyond them and she smoothly dodged his inquiry with a sharp retort that revealed absolutely nothing.

"I did indeed approach Kíli Thorinkin as an equal," if anything, her expression was mulish, her eyes unrepentant. "And if he ever wishes to have my cooperation, then he will extend the same courtesy to me."

And that was that. Kivi Journeyman would not speak any more of it and Bard left soon thereafter in a mixture of mild irritation, piqued curiosity, and deepened respect toward the enigmatic dwarven-maid who so was so masterfully piecing together his ancestral home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cowberries - a colloquial name for ligonberries. Since I live in the States (and the South, at that), I have never eaten or seen a ligonberry in the whole of my three decades. However...from what I can gather from research, it's rather like a cranberry in taste and appearance. Ish?
> 
> Shulukadrân – technically means “wet-season”; spans from between January/February and March/April. Is considered the “Deep Winter” in the Northern homes of the Stiffbeards.
> 
> Reikikoriat - sled dogs; think huskies.
> 
> Iklaladrân - winter, basically. Is considered the season between October/November and January/February.
> 
> Vanha Isä - means "Old Father". According to the MERPs website, this is the name that the Men have given Thulin. Which confirms what I had already suspected...the cultures of the Far North are indeed Finnish. Vanha Isä is definitely Finnish and translated immediately when I plugged it into a Finnish-English translator.
> 
> Haradwaith - the far southern nation/region of Middle Earth.


	7. The Last Goodbye

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Kíli finally mourns what he has lost...

“ _All eyes on the hidden door  
To the Lonely Mountain borne.”_

“ **Song of the Lonely Mountain”**

**Neil Finn**

* * *

 

**Ibriznurt (Ib) 'Afkalm 26th**

_(Sunday April 25 th)_

_**Erebor** _

* * *

 

Kíli let out a long, deep sigh as he lowered himself down into one of the many hot springs beneath the mountain. This particular onewas exclusively reserved for the King Under the Mountain and his family members. At this particular point, that privilege only applied to Kíli, but he had extended an invitation to Lord Dáin to use the baths when he so wished, as Kíli had also given him a room in one of the three wings that circled around the more centrally-placed baths.

All of the Royal rooms were built along the outermost curve of the mountain, facing the city of Dale, the plains between them, and the glistening ribbon of River Running. Almost all of the rooms had a balcony, although none so grand as the King's; from within his chambers, Kíli could throw the heavy stone doors of his balcony wide open and entertain as many as a party of six.

On the inside of the mountain, the halls of the Royal Level were open on the left side, to display a breath-taking view of the levels, walkways, balconies, and stairways of the kingdom above and below them. The floors of those hallways were made of pale blue sky-stone, threaded with intricate laces of silver and edged with delicate golden filigree. The walkways were carefully framed with study banisters made of polished black marble and brass; they were just about the height of an average dwarf's chest and as such, were the perfect height for leaning against and looking over without fear of overbalancing and plummeting to one's doom.

The level beneath the Royal apartments, however, was more enclosed and carefully guarded. In fact, the only main entrance to the apartments branched off of the walled hallway that lead to the very baths in which Kíli now rested. The baths themselves were artificial - the pools and their depths specifically engineered by dwarrow masons to mimic the more natural caverns deeper inside the mountain. Strong pipes and reinforced plumbing made it possible to pump both hot water and cold water from the mountain's various springs into a wide number of both cold and hot baths, so that no one dwarf (King or commoner) had to stray far from their homes or quarters to wash themselves.

Kíli currently sat in one of his own hot baths, on a shallow seat of sorts that had been carved into the side of the pool. He had come from an invigorating wash in the cold baths and he now relaxed in gently steaming heat that had been scented with herbs to soothe the ever-present ache in both his chest and thigh. He had his arms slung along either side of the carved seat and had sunk down into the water far enough to lay his head against a conveniently padded leather pillow.

Kíli breathed deeply, drawing the hot spring's steam into his lungs like he would a fine pipe smoke. He held it for a moment and then let his breath out slowly. This was the only time that he'd had alone to himself since sunrise - and last he checked, the moon had long since climbed into the star-lit night. It had been a draining day, full of sorrow and grief, as the last of the eastern interlock's recovered bodies were lovingly entombed in the Halls of Memory.

For once, however, Balin relayed a mostly positive response to Kíli's words and royal actions upon Erebor's cold stone throne that day. The young king felt at least _some_ tension leave his body when such news was delivered. His words had apparently soothed many of the broken hearts that had gathered sorrowfully in the Great Chamber of Thrór after the burial ceremonies; among that number were a significant number of Dáin's kin. This was quite the accomplishment, Balin had assured him, since support was greatly needed from the Iron Hills dwarrow, in order to ensure both peace and stability among the three Houses of the West.

Kíli opened his eyes, which he had closed during his brief muse over the day, and gazed wryly into the warm, damp darkness above him. The general business of a king seemed to escape him continuously, or confuse him, or utterly overwhelm him. But, grief? Grief he knew. He had spoken nothing but what was true that day, what came from his heart. He mourned the continued losses of his people - it was not so difficult to communicate that to others. It came far easier to him than words of mirth or council.

A sudden kerfuffle outside of the nearby door to the baths prevented Kíli's thoughts from taking a turn for the worse. He agitated the water around him as he abruptly sat up; his long, dark hair stuck in wet tendrils against his cheeks and mouth as he whipped his head around to eye the dimly lit walkway behind him.

"But, but...Your Highness!" Dwalin's deep voice echoed against the stones outside in clear and obvious distress.

The door flew open and a stout figure in what was quite definitely skirts paused proudly in the light that now beamed harshly into the dark baths.

"He isna' decent!" a taller silhouette appeared to the side and Kíli could see a thick arm reach out to pull the skirted figure back.

" _ **Yi'**_!" a wondrously familiar voice that Kíli knew as certainly as the sound of his own heart's beating chimed dismissively through the clouds of steam that now billowed in protest. "I brought the King of Erebor into this world with naught to cover him from my sight! I have nursed him, and dressed him, and chased his bare little _**khakhaf**_ over half of Ered Luin, just to corral him into a bath! What dwarrow-dam would I be if I were embarrassed by my own son's body?" [“ _Bah_!”] [“ _Buttocks_ ”]

The figure - the only one that now brought Kíli any joy whatsoever - marched resolutely into the bath, as Dwalin grumbled darkly behind her.

"No more, Dwalin!" she was now close enough that Kíli could hear her skirts swish as she stopped and waved her hand toward the door. "Leave me to speak to my son in the way that I so choose."

"Well, it wouldna' hurt if ya' chose to speak to him _decently_. At least, for the love of Mahal, he shouldna' talk to a lady in anything less than his trousers!" Dwalin was apparently determined to have the last word; before any retort could be tossed back to him, he had shut the bath-house door behind him, perhaps a wee bit harder than was absolutely necessary.

"As if I could see anything in all this bloody steam," skirts rustled again as, evidently, Kíli's guest found the small stool behind him, upon which his towel had been precariously placed. "And as if I'd see anything I haven't had to bathe before, in any event."

Kíli laughed, his first true expression of joy in nearly a year - since the last time he had seen his mother - Dís, sister of Thorin Oakenshield and Princess of Erebor.

"I was quite a bit smaller in those days, _**Khagun**_ ," he squinted through the steam, but could only see his mother as a solid mass and not much more. [“ _Mother_ ”]

Dís laughed brightly at that; something rustled again and Kíli could picture her smoothing the imaginary wrinkles in the lap of her deep blue dress.

Kíli's quick way with words had always brought a smile to her face. He had always had a personality not unlike her's - witty, puckish, and just a tad bit bawdy. His similarity to her, in truth, was one of the reasons she had always worried over him so, lecturing him on his brashness and cavalier dismissal of danger. Thorin had once told him, in a moment of typical frustration, that Dís had been much the same way in her youth - always dashing off in search of adventure, while her brothers scrambled desperately after her, resigned to being dragged along, to carrying her back home, and being blamed thoroughly for any mishap that befell her.

And, usually, also blamed for her going off on adventures in the first place.

" _Frerin was always reading those damned history books to her - the ones with all the great deeds and feats of our forefathers and Durin reborn. Filled your mother's head with a taste for what she couldn't have.”_

"You didn't send word that you were coming," Kíli tucked his good leg underneath him and turned, so that he was now resting his elbows on the stone floor, facing the misty form of his mother, his chest and stomach pressed up against the curve of the pool.

He folded his forearms side-by-side and rested his chin in the gentle groove between them. The steam was beginning to settle down, as the air within the chamber regulated itself once again. The features of Dís' proud face, thick hair, and elaborate braids was beginning to come into focus and for a moment, Kíli felt for all the world like a dwarfling again, being distracted in his bath-time play by his mother's mellow, dulcet voice.

"Yes, well...I've become quite well known in Ered Luin for my seclusion," Dís reached up and tucked one of her smaller braids behind her ear - it was the one she wore for Thorin, as it was fastened by a clasp that he'd made for her so very long ago. "Had I come out of such a thing so suddenly, saying that I wished to visit you...well, it would have made quite a stir. Which is not so much a bad thing," she added after a reflective pause. "But," she turned her head and finally, son and mother could make eye contact through the thin veil of steam that separated them. "I wished to have time - of my own make and choosing - with my only son, to speak privately with one another."

"You could speak with me privately whenever you wished, _Khagun_ ," Kíli titled his head so that his right cheek almost touched the patch of hair on his arms that was thickening slowly as he grew older.

"Yes...but if I had come with a full retinue and sufficient notice, it would be days before I could truly capture such time like this with you, _**dashat**_ ," Dís smiled gently at her youngest - her only remaining – child. [“ _Son_ ”]

" _ **Nâm**_ ," Kíli murmured softly - his mother had a point; he frowned a bit, then. "What brought you out of Ered Luin in the first place? Not that I'm not overjoyed to see you," he lifted his head and smiled at Dís a bit ruefully in the hopes that she didn't misinterpret his question. “But, I know that the memories are too bitter here for you.” [“ _Ahhh_ ”]

"I went to pray before the Forge of Mahal some time ago," Dís finally turned her gaze away from Kíli and considered her demurely folded hands, which glistened faintly in the ambient lamps high above them, from the number of golden rings that she wore as symbols of her status and wealth. "I thought that when I lost your father, that I had would never feel such a dark despair ever again. But, losing my last remaining _**nadad**_ and your only…" one strong, but slim-fingered hand reached up to brush at the high curve of her cheek. "Oh, Kíli. I was so very wrong. My heart has been truly buried - I went to beseech Mahal to beg Him to take me so that I might be with your father, your brother, your uncle once again." [“ _Brother_ ”]

Kíli's own heart thundered in his chest with a rhythm that was as painful as a hammer pounding against his ribs. He could not bear the thought of his mother being taken from him, too - not so soon, in any event. The pain flowing through his body, through his heart, was also one of visceral empathy - he knew only too well what drove his mother to Mahal's Forge in such desperation. He, too, had been far beyond all grief or sorrow, and had sought such boons from the Father as well.

He said nothing of this to his mother, however. He simply pressed his cheek to the top of his arms and silently thanked the dimness of their surroundings for masking the tears that threatened to spill down his own cheeks. At this particular moment, after such a deep confession from Dís, Kíli didn't quite trust himself to speak.

"As you can see, Mahal did _not_ answer my prayers," she tried to laugh, but all that came was a soft, whispery hiccup. "But," Kíli watched silently as the back of her hand now wiped quickly across both of her cheeks. "He sent your father, Ríkin, to me first, in a dream. Then Frerin. Then Fíli. And lastly, Thorin."

Kíli lifted his head, instantly alert, curious, and strangely hopeful. He had always heard that his mother possessed the ability to dream-see, but since Ríkin had died between Kíli's own conception and birth, the young king had only ever heard tales of Dís' elusive gift. Losing Ríkin had robbed her, it had seemed, of the ability to dream-see and once, when he had asked about it as a dwarfling just on the cusp of his adolescence, Dís had said as much herself.

Apparently, however, her dream-seeing had not entirely deserted her. Or, perhaps, her grief and desperation had been so much, that Mahal had decided it was best to let her walk the misty worlds one more time, so that she could find the hope she needed to carry on. In any event, Kíli was glad of Mahal's intervention and he leaned his chest further against the stone, eager to hear what the memories of his loved ones had revealed to Dís' broken heart.

Dís noticed her son's youthful hope and smiled gently at him, her eyes drifting lovingly over the dark, winsome face that was so very much like the uncle he'd never been able to know - Frerin, the brother she had adored from birth. She had often thought that there was Thorin in Kíli's eyes, her own self in his roguish smile, Ríkin in his slender form, and Frerin in his face. They all lived on in the youngest King Under the Mountain - rulers within their own right, standing loyally in Kíli's own two shoes, willing to give him the strength to reign as they each would have done.

 _If you could but see that, dashat,_ Dís thought sadly.

 _That_ was the true reason why she had come without warning from Ered Luin, _that_ was the message that her fallen family had been sent to give her. Dwarrow-dames did not usually council their kings, but Dís had been shown that winds of change had long been blowing over the mountain. It was her mother's duty to help her son heal, to guide him, to teach him, to show him how to reforge the broken pieces of his spirit. She had been told that it was time for her to step in, she had been reminded that not all was lost, and that one last flame of hope flickered within the darkened ruins of _**Azsâlul'abad**_. She could no longer think of herself; it was now time for Dís to come into her own as a Princess of Erebor.

Kíli could - and would, and had - resist the guidance of Balin, or Gloin, or Dwalin. But, he could not resist his mother. Not when they both knew the depth of their shared losses. Dís took a deep breath, sat up straighter on her stool and turned her gaze back toward Kíli, her king, her son.

"Kibil," Dís spoke her only-son's True Name ever so gently into the thick air, an honor and privilege restricted to her and to the One that Kíli might yet wed. "Your year and a day of grieving is long past. Mahal has kept you here for a purpose that you must honor," as she spoke, Dís rose softly from her seat and knelt carefully on the stone floor so that she could cup her son's stubbled cheeks in both her hands and lift his face to meet hers. "It is time to accept your crown, _**Thanu men.**_ " [ _“My King”_ ]

"Have _you_ not mourned past the given time, _Khagan_?" Kíli's voice matched his mother's in softened timber, but his words were defensive - he had grown more than weary with the expectations of others to lay aside his grief as if it were a passing fancy.

Dís seemed to sense some of the king's thoughts. She shook her head and a few strands of steam-loosened hair brushed against Kíli's upturned face. He breathed in deeply the scent of rosemary and almonds, which he had associated with his mother for as long as he could remember. It calmed him and diffused some of his irritation.

"Kíli, _thanu men_ , you are indeed correct - I have mourned long past my time. It is, perhaps, the one custom of our people that I have tried to fight the hardest. I remember as if it were yesterday, the day when I received your father, cold and bloody on his shield," tears threatened to fall again, but Dís never broke eye contact with her son, never moved her fingers from beneath his chin. "Fíli was barely beyond a babe in arms and you were still growing within me. I was young and full of despair - the midwives had to fight with me to take care of myself, to take care of you."

Kíli's eyes grew a bit wide in the dimness - this was a part of his origin that he had never known. Always, his mother had seemed cheerful, if ever-anxious over the safety of her sons; she had always been firm of hand, but he could not remember a time when she did not comfort him when he needed it. The only time that illusion of a strong dwarrow-dam had been shattered, was when she'd knelt at the side of Fíli's tomb and sobbed softly into her hands for hours. The memory softened his stubborn heart further and he would have lowered his head to the floor in shame, but her smooth hands prevented him from dropping his gaze.

"It was Thorin who pulled me - protesting quite mightily, I confess - out of my sorrow. I'll never forget," a watery smile lifted Dís' lips ever so slightly. "Oh! The fuss he made! I was in labor with you, screaming and crying for Ríkin, and he quite thoroughly scandalized the midwives when he came bursting through the door without warning."

Kíli finally broke free of his mother's hands, as he pulled back and stared at her, agape. Dwarrow men _never_ entered the birthing room - unless, of course, he was the father. The presence of the father was expected at the birth, as it was he who had the honor of cutting the babe free and swaddling it in the cloths that had been prepared. It was the father who put the baby in the mother's arms; mother and father were both then expected to stay with their new charge, with each other, for however long it took the mother to recover, usually a few days. Such was custom, but only _ever_ the father.

"Oh, he made a mighty roar, in order to make himself heard over my wailing. ' _Stop your screeching, woman_!' he said," Dís leaned back herself and laughed softly at the memory and at the shocked look on her son's face. "Scared me right into silence, I have to admit, although that certainly didn't stop the pain of your imminent arrival. Then he plopped himself - armor, weapons, woolen coat and all on a stool next to me and grabbed my hand," the Princess dipped her head and dashed the back of her hand over her eyes. "' _Ríkin is gone to Mahal and nothing will change that_ ,' Thorin said, then. He was so harsh and his demeanor quite frightened me. But, your uncle had a heart of oak, too, _dashat_ \- strong, and loyal, and proud. He sat in your father's place, because he knew that's what I needed - tradition be damned - and held my hand. He gave me _his_ strength for that long night," Dís reached out and put her own slender hand on the top of Kíli's closest forearm. "He quite amazed the midwives, really, once they stopped their squawking. They said later, when Thorin was being most thoroughly scolded for his indiscretion, that they did not think you or I would have survived that birth without him. Yours was a hard birth, Kibil, and my spirit, my body, was weaker than it should have been.

"I no longer had your father when I needed him the most, but Mahal left me one strong enough to take his place where and when he could. It was Thorin who cut your cord, who swaddled you, who put you in my arms," no amount of steam could hide the shimmer of tears in her eyes, or the gentle illumination her sudden smile gave to her face. "I think that is, perhaps, a large reason why he always seemed to favor you. He took a father's bond with you, whereas Fíli's was with Ríkin."

Kíli was silent, unable to think of any response to his mother's revelation. In all his years with his uncle, Thorin had never said a word about his nephew's birth. His mind, unbidden, flashed back to the time just before the Battle of the Five Armies, when Thorin cupped his hand around the back of Kíli's head and pulled him forward to rest their foreheads together. They had smiled at each other, then, and Kíli had seen the depth of Thorin's love for him. It was the sort of gesture a father made with his son, one that was a rare but widely accepted admission of love, since dwarrow fathers rarely spoke their feelings out loud. It was the sort of affection a father showed to his son, before they both went out to battle and faced the very real possibility that they might never see each other again.

His whole life, Kíli had known no father, but his uncle. And he had never thought about it, had never analyzed it, but in the light of his mother's memory, the closeness he had always shared with Thorin suddenly made sense. It was Thorin, who had given him his first bow, who had patiently taught him how to shoot. It was Thorin who had sat back and indulgently allowed him to run amok, while Fíli had to keep his nose buried in the driest dwarrow tomes. Kíli had never hesitated, as dwarfling, to run to his uncle, to sit on his lap and to listen to his stories. Oh, Fíli had never hesitated, either - but Fíli had always sat at Thorin's feet, his back propped up against his uncle's legs, or maybe on the leg of the chair. Fíli was, for the most part, instructed by Balin, but in Kíli's early stages, it was Thorin who taught him how to read, to write, and to add his numbers.

Thorin's attentiveness had waned as Kíli grew up - upon reflection, that was the way of all dwarrow fathers, to give their sons the opportunity to grow on their own and make risks, while still under the watchful eyes of a parent who could fish them out of whatever chaos they created. But, when it was time for Thorin to teach Fíli and Kíli both the art of anvil and hammer, Thorin did not protest when Kíli failed to show a proper inclination for the craft. He was hard – _always_ hard – on Fíli, but it was Kíli he allowed to apprentice to a jeweler. Not a negative word was ever said about the choice to pursue a more delicate craftsmanship, one that suited Kíli's nimble fingers far better than the forge.

Unlike Fíli, Kíli had almost always been given his choice of paths to take through life; Thorin had, if anything, encouraged it, quite possibly because, as youngest-son, Kíli's fate was one far less predestined as his brother's. And freedom, he had been told sternly by Thorin from his youngest years, always came with choices that he had to learn to make " _with a steady head on your shoulders_ ".

Kíli could feel the corners of his eyes growing hot again with tears - tears that he was truthfully tired of shedding. But, to know that Thorin had brought him into the world and formed a father-bond with him because of it... And to know that now and to know that he had lived all those years under Thorin's watchful eye without once knowing the depth of his uncle's love for him…it was enough to tear a new wound clear through his heart.

Dís watched as all of Kíli's thoughts flashed across his face and echoed soundlessly in his dark eyes. As her young king worked out his thoughts and emotions about what she had told him, she gently brushed his arm and waited for the storm within him to calm. Once she thought it was maybe safe to interject, she said as softly as she could:

"This is why you have been allowed the twelve months of greiving, without question. Thorin was to you what Ríkin never got to be to Fíli - a father, in so very many ways. Even in my grief, I have received letters from Balin, updates on your doings here. You might feel differently, _dashat_ , but no one has begrudged you your year and a day. But, that is seven months past, Kíli."

"I've lost my brother - who protected me whole life and never left my side, not once," the young, burdened King of Erebor squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head fiercely; his voice wavered and his words were thick with emotions he could only express in angry spurts. "I've lost the very man who, you say, was my father in all ways except for siring me," as he spoke, Kíli unconsciously clenched his fists against the stone beneath them. "And I've lost….I lost…" his voice broke, unable to name Tauriel, even to his mother.

But, Dís knew anyway. It was no secret to her that her reckless, hard-headed, open-hearted youngest had stood at the cusp of giving his heart fully over to an elf-maid. And, truthfully, she could not find it in her heart to fault him for trying to grasp at a love just beyond his reach. Such was the way of youth.

"You have lost much, _thanu men_ , no one - not I - will argue that. But you are _not_ the only one who has lost so deeply," Dís lifted her hand and gently moved a strand of hair that had stuck itself to Kíli's cheek. "Thorin showed me that so very long ago; he also showed me that Mahal will always leave you with what and who you truly need."

Dís stopped for a moment and watched with great compassion, her heart breaking anew, as Kíli's shoulders and upper chest heaved in an effort to hold back his sobs. Her hand now soothed the wrinkles in his forehead and brushed his damp hair away from his face - soft touches, comforting touches, healing touches she hoped.

"I did you wrong, Kíli, when I allowed my sorrow and despair to send me back to the comfort of Ered Luin. It was safe for me, a place where I could be left alone as I so chose, without constant reminder of what our brothers gave their lives to reclaim. I should not have left you here by yourself - we have much in common now, _dashat_."

"I _have_ missed you, mother. So very terribly," Kíli admitted in a voice that was barely above a whisper; Dís drifted her fingers through the long hair that framed his face and murmured soothingly. "I've felt all alone in this Lonely Mountain."

"And you have never been alone before," Dís sighed heavily, guilt rolling through her at the thought that she had left her only remaining child to face the challenges of grief and kingship all on his own. "Oh, what sort of mother have I been?" she asked, more to herself than to Kíli - but he answered anyway.

"A good one, _Khagun_ ," he finally lifted his head, his cheeks wet with what they both pretended was condensation, and reached up to grab his mother's hand. "Always."

"One that has been blind and foolish in her grief," she said wryly.

"So, we've both been fools," Kíli rolled his shoulders and tried to smile up at his mother. "Runs true in the blood as…" his voice faltered. "Fíli would have said."

Dís chuckled softly and let her son take her hand in both of his as he sat straighter, his chest still pressed to the stone. The two fell silent for a moment; they were both trying to get used to the names of their loved ones on their tongues again. As far as Kíli was concerned, saying his brother's name out loud physically _hurt_ \- he hadn't said Fíli's, Thorin's, _or_ Tauriel's names out loud since their death. Just the very thought of doing so had always made him feel as if speaking their names in the past tense would bring a wretched sense of finality to their loss.

He had been correct in that assumption - his heart sank and he had to swallow a shout of grief at the very sound of his brother's name in the air between them. His mouth felt sour, then dry, and he couldn't stop the tears that fell into his all but non-existent beard.

"Tell me, Kibil – you have not spoken their names aloud in all this time, have you?" Dís asked gently as her hands were all but crushed in the desperate grip Kíli had on them.

Unable to speak, he just shook his head and a soft moan passed through his lips, which he had pressed tightly together.

"I should have done this a year ago, little raven," she murmured ever so gently, using the nickname she had given him as a dwarfling, because of his riotous array of dark hair and keen, bright eyes.

Still holding his hands, she scooted as best she could closer to the edge of the carved seat where Kíli shook and shivered in his sorrow. She had barely managed to settle her skirts again - her feet now hanging over the edge of the pool and all but brushing the top of the water - when Kíli made a desperate sort of sound and threw his arms around her waist. They were both at a level that he could bury his face into her thigh, as he had done as a dwarfling. Dís did not need to ask, to know that Kíli had tried to play his uncle's role - stoic, stubborn, stern. In truth, it was a natural thing to do - to hold tightly onto the clearest role model in memory. But, Kíli had never been like Thorin, or as Fíli had learned to be - no, her youngest son had always worn his heart on his sleeve, had always chattered incessantly like a young raven of Erebor, had never quite learned how to keep his thoughts to himself. True, he learned to withhold verbal displays of affection - but, before grief stripped his heart to nothing more than blood and sinew, he would have never hesitated to honor a memory by speaking it out loud.

Kíli keened softly into the softly stirring steam around them and Dís cared not at all that her skirts were soaking through and her hair had gone limp all around her face. She simply ran her fingers through his hair and cried softly with him. Kíli did not need to say anything at all, for her to know that he had not allowed himself to speak of his grief, or to show it, or to let it out since he had consigned his beloved uncle and brother to Mahal's eternal keep.

A year and a half's worth of tears dampened the wool of her skirt - which would probably be well ruined by the steam, the damp, and the drag of it across the rough-hewn floor. But, Dís ignored it all - in that sacred space, there were no titles, no expectations, no courtly expectations. There was simply a heart-broken son and his mother, who grieved with him more deeply than he would ever know.

"They walk with you, Kibil," Dís' words hung like gentle wisps in the air between them, as she smoothed her hand over the curve of her son's proud head. "They always will. Mahal has shown me that death does not have the power to sever that bond."

She spoke as if she were talking to herself, but it seemed as if the words helped. His sobs were still fierce, but they grew less frequent in the long, timeless minutes after her whispered promise.

Later, when Dís would look back on that time with Kíli, she would wonder if her mind was deceiving her. But, she would remember dark forms in the steam, more dense than the air, but not enough to be mortal forms. And she could have sworn that the familiar hands of kings and princes now gone reached forth and lay like voiceless blessings on the shoulders of her youngest son. She would also remember the moment that Kíli's sobs finally stopped and when he finally lifted his tear-stained face from her skirts, his eyes swollen with grief, but finally clear.

She would remember that as the moment when Erebor finally took its first breath of hope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Azsâlul'abad- Khuzdul name for the Lonely Mountain.
> 
> Kibil - means “silver”. I thought it would work well for Kíli's secret name, since "Kíli" can be easily made by just shuffling the "l" over and dropping the "b". I have this working theory that a lot of dwarrow true-and-outer names might work this way. It also makes sense to me that a father/mother would know this name and occasionally use it in private moments like this. I also imagine a dwarf's One would know his name and he hers - it would be a very intimate, binding sort of thing and definitely appropriate in the context of a marriage, although I don't think that any of this ever explicitly stated in Tolkien's lore.


	8. A Matter of Masons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Kili considers his options...

“ _We'll ride in the gathering storm  
Until we get our long-forgotten gold.”_

“ **Song of the Lonely Mountain”**

**Neil Finn**

* * *

 

**Izgilnurt (Iz) 'Afkalm 27th**

_(Monday April 26th)_

_**Erebor** _

* * *

 

The King of Erebor quickly discovered that letting go of his bottled grief did not solve any particular problem. Kíli found himself sitting on his throne the next morning, feeling as out of place as ever before. Indeed, one might wonder what good speaking of the dead and crying for them had done. But, he felt more present in the matters of state than he had before; while his heart still hung in his chest like a chunk of broken steel, the young king was able to finally free a part of his mind from the all-consuming, subconscious business of sorrow and actually focus on what was going on around him.

That morning, he had made a step - however small it was - toward an acceptance of his fate. His straight razor remained untouched by the wash basin in the corner of his bedroom; as quickly as his hair grew (as all dwarrow hair grew), he was quite certain that the doubting lords of the Iron Hills would see a difference in their King when they came searching for a reckoning six days hence. And a reckoning they would certainly seek, according to Dáin, who was speaking now:

"...There's dark mutterin's, _thanu men_. My old ears only hear whispers, but it's enough to know that there are enough voices wi' power an' wealth who would use the eastern interlock's collapse as sufficient cause to argue your abdication," the brilliantly-haired dwarf-lord shifted uncomfortably on his feet at the very mention of a mutiny against the throne.

"And what of you, Lord Dáin?" Kíli focused hard on modulating his voice - calm, collected, deep - and schooled his expressive features - detached, focused, impassive.

The young king sat properly in his throne, his boots planted quite firmly beside one another on the jadeite floor beneath him. His arms rested straight on the arms of the cool granite throne, hands draped across the ends to reveal the intricately carved rings he wore - silver on both of his thumbs to represent himself, gold on his right middle finger in memory of Fíli, and a recovered mithril on his left middle finger for Thorin. He was not dressed as regally as he would have been for a truly formal court, but the quality of his his jerkin still befitted his station. It was made out of a well-dyed wool that was a shade or two brighter than the blue Thorin had usually worn. Like Kíli's formal robe, the jerkin was edged with silver trim woven with geometric knot-work that mimicked his own personal sigil. His under-tunic was a simple, dark gray linen. Both tunic and jerkin were bound tightly at his waist with the same studded, sturdy leather belt he had worn as a member of his uncle's Company. Kíli's hair was neatly combed and bound in its usual way, pulled away from his face with a leather clasp. The Crown of Erebor – sparkling gold, ancient mithril and smoky obsidian - glinted across his brow and the King Under the Mountain tried not to fidget uncomfortably beneath its weight.

He had glanced at his reflection many times in the polished columns and crystal edifices of his regal halls; Kíli was well aware of how he looked, with the raven's wings sweeping across his brow. He thought of one such glimpse just mere hours before, when he had allowed Dís the honor of placing the crown on his head. His mother's name for him, the whole of his life, was "little raven". Perhaps, he was born for the crown, after all.

Kíli made every effort to keep his shoulders back and his broad chest pushed out, as if he were in a seated version of military attention. As if, perhaps, he actually believed that he had every right to sit in his uncle's throne, as if he was completely assured of himself.

It all felt like a lie, but Balin had long insisted that if one pretended long enough, a lie could become reality. Kíli sincerely hoped that this was true, else he would play quite the fool. But, Balin's council had never been in error before, so the young thane had decided that there was no harm in trying to put his best boot forward.

It seemed to be having a mostly positive effect, from what he could gather in the faces before him. Bofur hadn't stopped squinting up at him thoughtfully, sometimes nodding gently as if to himself, when Kíli made a particular move with his hands or asked a certain question. Ori - who he couldn't quite see, since the mousy Chronicler was to his left and only in his peripheral vision - was scratching away madly in his enormous tome of blank pages, even when nothing was being said. Which surely meant that he was sketching yet another portrait, although Kíli tried not to flatter himself and assume that Ori's quill-scritches were because of him. And Dáin had drawn his shoulders back and kept them there, proud and stout, when he had met Kíli's schooled and careful gaze from upon the Mountain's legendary throne.

Although, Dáin had not apparently pulled his shoulders or his spine to his full height until now. At Kíli's question, a fierceness flashed through Dáin's bright eyes and he puffed himself out in a subconscious display of unquestionable resolution. The strike of metal against metal rang through the open chamber, as the Lord of the Iron Hills smacked his gloved fist proudly into his chest-plate.

"I stand with my King, Your Majesty. As do all in my household," Dáin's beard all but quivered with the force of his sincerity. "You need never doubt that, sire."

"We don't," Kíli dipped his head graciously toward Dáin and for a moment, the two smiled at each other (although, the younger dwarf tried his best to keep his as understated and kingly as possible). "But, the loyalty of Dáin may well be mute, if we cannot resolve the issue of the eastern interlock. A thane who cannot find the means to build his own kingdom can be rightfully called into question."

The statement might have seemed self-effacing, but Kíli saw Balin nodding his snowy head in approval in the periphery of his right eye. The movement was slight, circumspect to be sure, but it bolstered Kíli's confidence enough for him to continue calmly:

"You bring more masons to us, Lord Dáin?"

"I do," Dáin's wild hair looked even more feral as he nodded his head vigorously. "Fourscore journeymen, ten apprentices, and one master."

"And what of the master's credentials?"

Dáin was quite unsuccessful in disguising a sudden grimace. There was a pause, then a short puff of resignation.

"He is just turned 85, sire, and..." Dáin took a deep breath and all but mumbled: "He passed his Master's Trial only a moon ago."

Kíli resisted the urge to reach up and pinch the bridge of his long nose. He did squint down at Dáin and tapped the fingers of his right hand once, twice, against the runes of protection and power that were carved into the stone beneath his sleeve. It wasn't Dáin's fault, however, that one utterly inexperienced master was all that he could offer to Erebor's reconstruction.

"We would speak to this Master of the Iron Hills," Kíli tapped his fingers again; to his surprise, Dáin looked rather startled by the request. "He is waiting in the Summoning Room, is he not?" one dark eyebrow arched toward the carved wing resting just above it.

"He...he is, Your Majesty," Dáin's chest puffed in and then out, as if he was at a loss for what to say; after a few seconds, he sighed heavily and threw his hands mildly up in the air beside him. "He is deaf and mute, Your Majesty. An' I fear he knows nothin' of the elegancies of court."

"Neither do you, if you flap your hands before your king," Kíli reprimanded gently, but there was enough of a smile about his lips for Dáin to relax after a moment of wide-eyed dismay.

"My apologies, _thanu men_ ," Dáin bowed respectfully and clenched his hands at his side - not in defiance, but in an effort to reign in his obvious frustration over the matter of the master.

"This is, however, an informal gathering, though it is held in our throne room and recorded for Memory," Kíli finally lifted his right hand and and rubbed it across his scruff; it was torture, sitting so still for so long. "Surely, your Master knows _ **iglishmêk**_?"

"Of course, Your Majesty," the dwarf-lord confirmed immediately.

"Then we see no issue in requesting his presence," Kíli waved his hand dismissively and then set it back down across the arm-rest. "As we have already said, this is a mostly informal court, among kin. We will speak to him in _iglishmêk_ and we will disregard any breach of etiquette that the Master may make, for this one time."

Dáin bowed again, Kíli's implied command understood - if the sole master mason of the Iron Hills was going to participate in the reconstruction of Erebor, then his presence in formal court, however infrequent, would be required. The intricacies of court was something the poor mason would have to learn, and quickly, if he was not to make a fool of himself, Dáin, or his King in the Council of Lords planned for the first day of _**Gargbuzrâmrâg**_ , which was less than a week away. [“ _Deep Ale Fest”_ ]

As the guards at the entrance to the throne room reached up and heaved the tall iron doors open, Kíli propped his elbows more firmly on his armrests and clasped his hands together in front of his chest. In a formal court, he would not use _iglishmêk_ himself - that would be Balin's duty. But, the young king meant to extend courtesy and respect to Dáin's master mason and there would be no harm done in using _iglishmêk_ himself for this first meeting. As it was, Kíli had always quite liked the hand-language of his kin, and had frequently held whole conversations with Fíli over the years without ever once uttering a single word. He had not used _iglishmêk_ since Fíli's death, however, and those closest to him would know that small detail. They would, in turn, mark his effort and know how deeply it cost him. They would recognize the subtle message that he was trying to get across – that he had accepted, or was at least trying _to_ accept, that he was King Under the Mountain.

A diminutive form trotted obediently down the long, narrow walkway, a little too fast for the dignity required of meeting a king. But, the round face that politely refrained from looking up him was quite earnest and once the master had drawn abreast of Dáin, he bowed appropriately, if clumsily.

"Please tell the young Master that he may look at us," Kíli unclasped his hands and let them hang loosely above his lap, as he addressed Dáin. "We would speak with him ourselves."

"Yes, Your Majesty," his uncle's cousin nodded and after a few brief flickers of his fingers, the master mason turned wide gray eyes up at his king.

" _You honor us with your presence, Master Mason_ ," Kíli's hands wove his words in front of him and he couldn't help a brief smile at the look of awe, respect, and appreciation that brightened the surprisingly beard-less face below him. " _Welcome to Erebor. Hail and well met. Please, give us your name, so that we may address you accordingly._ "

" _I am Alf, son of Althjof, of Ered Luin, Your Majesty,_ " the young master mason answered back, slowly at first, but as he eyed Kíli carefully for any sign of displeasure - and found none - his fingers flew faster. " _It is indeed my own honor to even walk the halls of mighty Erebor and to speak with the Lord of the Silver Fountains._ "

Kíli dipped his head regally at Alf with a faint smile of approval that the sharp-eyed mason caught. The young dwarf was clearly shy and most unused to speaking to those far above his own station, but his shoulders straightened under the kindness of Kíli's approval.

" _Tell us, Master Alf, have you studied the prints and plans of Erebor_?" Kíli suspected he knew the answer - Dáin was a thorough man, for all his bluster and bellowing, and would have provided his master mason access to such information.

" _Yes, sire,_ " Alf signed back immediately.

" _Have you seen or studied the notes of the late Masters, Skirvir and Virvir_?"

" _I have_ ," Alf nodded his head as he signed and only after he let his hands drop did he realize his mistake and added a belated (and bemused), " _Sire._ "

" _Do you know what went wrong in the eastern interlock?_ " Kíli watched Alf carefully for his response.

The mason - who was little, even for a dwarf - did not answer immediately. The King did not push him; Alf would answer in time and hurrying him for an answer would simply frighten the skittish young man. This was also a question of the greatest importance, which would determine whether or not Kíli would truly have to go back into Dale and seek the help of the cantankerous Kivi Journeyman.

Dáin had come to Erebor after the cave-in, fully prepared to provide what help he could to his new king. But, because of all the funeral arrangements, ceremonies, and condolences, Dáin hadn't had an opportunity to tell Kíli much of anything about the masons that he had brought from the Iron Hills. For a few moments, at least, Kíli had hoped that he wouldn't have to take Bard up on his advice, but as Alf answered, he realized that he may have little other choice.

" _I must regretfully admit, sire, that I do not know what went wrong. My review of the materials I have been given, do not offer a ready explanation. I am an experienced mason, but Masters Skirvir and Virvir had almost a hundred years more of master-craft than I can claim,_ " Alf paused and his eyes searched Kíli's face nervously for any sign of anger or disappointment.

Kíli _was_ disappointed, but he didn't want to undermine Alf's confidence.

" _Please speak freely, Master Alf. You are wise to tell us your limitations so honestly._ "

The dwarf-mason's chest - which was covered in a neat, if rather weathered, workman's apron - rose and fell as if in deep relief. After a brief pause to gather his thoughts, Alf continued.

" _I can find no fault in the Masters' plans,_ " Alf's face was earnest, as he continued speaking to his King in the only way they could. " _I have also taken the liberty to inspect what I could of the eastern interlock and its rubble. I do not possess the skill necessary to determine what went wrong and how to avoid a collapse from happening again, when we rebuild._ "

" _Is it possible that the eastern interlock could be rebuilt without the fear of another collapse_?"

" _Yes, sire, that is possible. But it is not well-advised,_ " Alf's hands were steady and his eye-contact firm; he was certain in his reply. " _Without knowing what went wrong the first time, it would be foolish to rebuild again. I fear..._ " he paused, his fingers faltering.

" _What does your skill tell you, Master?_ " Kíli leaned forward slightly, intent on watching Alf's small hands for his answer.

" _I fear, sire, that the fault may not have lain with Masters Skivir or Virvir...nor with the dragon, Smaug_ ," Alf's eyes were wide and something like uncertainty tinged his gaze, but he continued to sign to Kíli, determined to obey his King's command. " _I fear that the fault may lay with the interlock's original creators._ "

"Nonsense!" Dwalin huffed, but Kíli threw up his hand and shot his personal bodyguard and long-time protector a harsh look.

"It was once said that reclaiming this mountain was 'nonsense'," the young King pulled his shoulders back until they were resting, rigid and proud, against the back of his throne. "Yet, look at where we sit," he spread his hands open wide, inviting the gazes around him to take in - yet again - the incredible majesty of their ancestral home. "There is not a being in Middle Earth, Captain, that does not make wrong judgments."

Kíli's duly appointed Captain of the Guard bowed his head respectfully in acknowledgment of the point so made. For himself, the younger dwarf heaved an internal sigh and stared thoughtfully off into the distance, just beyond Alf's narrow right shoulder.

 _Perhaps if we hadn't assumed the infallibility of dwarven skill, much would be different,_ he thought to himself. _Perhaps Bard has a point - some humility might do us well._

The Stiffbeard dwarrow-maid's brilliant halo of hair and piercing eyes came to mind, then. There was no confusing the matter - she was a fire and a tempest, and an unbending knee. Her words had cut deep - " _Perhaps in time, Your Majesty, I can come to trust you enough to explain myself further. But, today is not that day, nor was it the day that I chose to rebuild Dale over yon Erebor ."_

She had defied him, had put her hands upon him (not that Kíli had much minded), and had treated him as if the crown he now wore on his head was nothing more than a woven braid of posies. Her refusal to help Erebor confused him, as Kíli had never encountered such a lack of solidarity from another dwarf.

Then again...Thorin had called for the Seven Houses to meet at Ered Luin and all to a one had refused to contribute troops to the retaking of Erebor. Even Dáin had initially refused; Thorin had, however, been frustrated, but not bitter. He had, instead, made the best of what he had - not the best nor the brightest, Balin had pointed out that fateful night at Bag End - and had welcomed Dáin's belated arrival with gratitude, not anger. For the first time, Kíli wondered who of the Eastern lords had answered Thorin's call and who had stood before his uncle on behalf of the Stiffbeards. No doubt, it was a man like Jarvi, but the cheerful smile on Kivi's face before she realized that Kíli was not a fellow Stiffbeard swam into focus. Had it been one like her? A rare dwarrow-dam, full of passion and pride?

What was it that the master mason had said? " _You can fall through the ice on your own, but you cannot save yourself._ " Kíli stroked his chin and turned those Northern words over in his mind for a long moment, before he finally focused on Alf again.

The throne room had gone still and silent. Kíli could feel the tips of his ears turn red in embarrassment. He hadn't meant to drift into his own thoughts in the middle of a conversation, but at least he had used that time to make something of a decision.

" _Master Alf, thank you for your council and for your wise accounting of your skills. You will serve our Kingdom well..._ " Kíli paused for dramatic effect and held Alf's eyes meaningfully for several long seconds. " _But, we must ask one last question, before releasing you to return to your own valuable time: could you work without conflict with another master mason?_ "

" _Assuredly, sire. It would be my great honor and pleasure,_ " Alf replied instantly, eagerly.

Kíli couldn't help a dry smile as he added the all-important punchline:

" _Even a daughter of Thulin? A master mason of_ _ **Gabilzahar**_?"

Alf's gray eyes grew wide, until they seemed to dominate the totality of his expression. For a moment, the little mason just quivered in his very boots and Kíli began to worry that he had given the master dwarf enough of a shock to induce a failure of the heart.

Alf's answer, however, was everything Kíli had hoped for and none of what he had expected.

" _A true master mason? A Mestari of the Stiffbeards? Sire, a Stone Master of the North would be a highest honor to Erebor. I would willingly rank myself as a mere apprentice again, for the opportunity to work under the chisel and mallet of a Stiffbeard mason._ "

Well. That settled that. Almost, anyway - Kíli wasn't quite sure Alf comprehended the full details of what he was getting so excited over.

" _Even if this master were a woman? A maid of your own age?_ " Kíli was guessing here, but based on the lines on Kivi's face and the lack of others, he guessed her to be a contemporary either of himself or Alf.

" _If she is a Mestari of Gabilzahar, it matters not,_ " Alf waved a dismissive hand between his words. " _Male or female, it makes no difference. She would have no parallel in the West, sire._ "

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Iglishmêk – the secret hand-language of the Khazâd. I imagine it to be something like the hand signals we use in the military, but better developed, like ASL (American Sign Language), so that conversations can be held in the din of a dwarven smithy or mine.
> 
>  
> 
> Gargbuzrâmrâg – the “Deep Ale Fest”; this festival runs from the 9th to the 19th of the 8th Month (the 26th of May - 5th of June, for the purposes of this story). The Deep Ale Fest celebrates the hard work of the dwarrow – I won't say more than that, since it'll be described more in-depth in upcoming chapters.
> 
>  
> 
> Gabilzahar – the Khuzdul name for Kivi Torni, home of the Stiffbeards.


	9. More Questions Than Answers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Kili discusses the mystery of Kivi Journeyman...

“ _We lay under the Misty Mountains cold  
In slumbers deep and dreams of gold.”_

“ **Song of the Lonely Mountain”**

**Neil Finn**

* * *

**Izgilnurt (Iz) 'Afkalm 27th**

_(Monday April 26th)_

_**Erebor** _

* * *

 

 

"You're not thinkin' o' askin' that thrice-damned shrew _again_?" Bofur just gaped stupidly at Kíli from across the length of the narrow Council Room.

"Third time's the charm?" Kíli shrugged, with some of his old cheek rising to the fore.

“Don’t make jest, Your Majesty!” Bofur’s mustache trembled indignantly. “I dare say we can make due wi’ Master Alf!”

“Except no one’s askin’ ya’ fer ya’ say,” Dwalin drawled laconically from his post by the fire.

The enormous (for a dwarf) warrior had one thick arm resting above the other, as his chest was entirely too wide to cross them as perhaps Ori or Nori could. One foot was draped casually over the other, as Dwalin rested the bulk of his weight on one leg and against the corner of the carved fireplace mantle. The older dwarf fixed Bofur with a warning gaze, which the engineer respected, but not without a put-upon little huff into his mustache.

“An’, dinna’ kin if ya’ noticed,” Dwalin continued, his eyes hard fixed on the fuming Bofur. “But, I dare say that Master Alf looks as if one good push o’ the wind would send ‘im tumblin’ feet o’er head into the nearest ravine. We need another option if that should happen.”

“Well,” Bofur snorted and stubbornly crossed his arms over his chest. “One certainly couldn’t say that damned dwarf-maid is anything but stout. Lass is so prickly, she coulda’ chased Smaug outta’ here just by lookin' at ‘im.”

“What is all this talk of a dwarrow-maid?” Dís had quietly entered the Council Room while Dwalin and Bofur had fussed at each other.

Upon realizing her presence, every man in the room either stood up or stood up straighter. Kíli quickly grabbed his chair at the head of the Council Table, which he wasn’t using, and beckoned for his mother to take her seat among them. Dís did so, moving through the gathering of men with more grace and fluidity than one might have otherwise expected from a dwarrow-dam. Only after she had settled her skirts about her - today, a cheerful robin’s egg blue - did she look expectantly toward Bofur, who blushed clear to the tips of his fuzzy hat.

“Ah...well...ah…” Bofur stuttered, shocked not only to be speaking to the sole Princess of Erebor (a long-time and well-known recluse among the Blue Mountain dwarrow), but to be in the presence of a dwarf-dam in general.

Dís just smiled brightly at Bofur and shook her head; her dark eyes, so much like her elder brother’s, slid over toward her son. She lifted a thick, but gently groomed, eyebrow at Kíli and teasingly demanded:

“There’s a dwarrow-maid?”

Kíli immediately flushed a bright red and even he stammered in the wake of his mother’s words.

“Ah...uh...n-not quite like that, _Khagun_ ,” he sputtered, thankful to be only in the company of those who had known him since his dwarfling days.

“Though, she _is_ a right beauty,” Ori piped up without thinking; when every single set of eyes in the room turned to him; the gentle scribe blushed as well and immediately found something quite fascinating about the stone beneath his feet.

“Do tell, Master Ori,” Dís continued to smile brightly and propped her chin on the palm of her hand, as she leaned against the carved rests of Kíli’s oaken chair.

Conflicted, Ori glanced up at Kíli, who was darkly mouthing the words _“don't you dare_ ” at him. The scribe then glanced at Dís, who was as winsome as any fresh-faced dwarrow-maid, and Ori gulped. He was helpless against Dís’ considerable charms and he tried not to look at Kíli as he hesitantly answered her.

“Oh, aye, Your Highness,” he didn’t dare speak above a whisper, as if that would somehow spare him from Kíli’s indignation. “A right beauty she is. Like a sunset in winter,” he nodded, quite pleased with his imagery. “Brilliant, flaming hair, an’ lots o’ it! An’ the brightest blue eyes, rather like F-” Ori stopped himself immediately and lost his nerve.

He had been about to say “like Fíli’s” and his heart pounded in his chest. What a cruel thing to say to the heir apparent’s grieving mother.

“L-like f-frost on the River Runnin’,” Ori cleared his throat and continued bravely, not daring now to look at anyone in the room, but still quite determined to recover from his inexcusable slip of the tongue. “When the afternoon sun hits it.”

“So, like Fíli’s,” Dís murmured softly; startled, Ori snapped his gaze up to hers and was perplexed to see her still smiling.

Although, on second glance, it was a smile tinged with sadness. Ori dipped his head again, unable to voice his apology, but hoping the Princess would forgive him all the say.

“It is quite fine to speak the names of our dead,” Dís continued a little louder, as if sensing Ori’s thoughts. “And to compare the eyes of a dwarrow-maid to Prince Fíli’s is quite certainly the highest of compliments.”

Kíli, for his part, swallowed thickly and tried not to think that Ori was right in his comparison. Kivi did indeed have eyes as brightest blue like Fíli’s - although, perhaps, hers were better compared to Thorin’s, as stormy as he had seen them.

“And who is such a lass, to remind you of a friend and prince so dear?” Dís titled her head, eyes and mouth still gentle, but now sad.

Ori opened his mouth to answer, but Bofur’s grumbling beat him to it.

“ _Yi_ ’, I assure ya’, that’s where the resemblance stops. An ill-tempered creature, that one,” before anyone could take Bofur to task for his unflattering assessment of a dwarrow-maid who wasn't present to defend herself, Erebor's chief engineer barreled onward. “We've lost too much, sire,” Bofur turned beseechingly toward his king. “Why must we grovel for the aid of a lass who doesnna’ wanna’ give it?”

“Well, I wasn’t intending on groveling -” Kíli began, but Bofur cut him off.

“But, you _are,_ even if that’s not your intent,” the older dwarf looked his younger ruler straight in the eye, his jaw clenched in something like defiance. “We keep comin’ back around and back again over this master mason business. We need one, aye, an' I don’t deny that. I think I can say that as Chief Engineer, I know that fact better than anyone else in this room. But, why must we chase after a woman who won't even call us kin? I say leave ‘er to rebuild Dale’s walls and may _**Durin’s Bane**_ ‘ave ‘er.”

There was a long silence at that, until Dís gently interjected:

“I do insist - who is this lass that so troubles the proud sons of Durin?”

“Kivi Journeyman,” Kíli finally answered, his words dragging past his lips reluctantly. "And according to Master Bard, who introduced us to her, Master Kivi troubles us because we are proud."

"Ooh," Balin huffed into his snowy-white beard. "I would have loved to have been a mouse in the corner for that conversation."

Kíli shot his loyal and level-headed adviser a dour look. Balin was forever - for as long as Kíli had known him - grumbling about Durin's pride as if he weren't one of Erebor's sons himself.

"Is this lovely lass a Firebeard, then?" Dís frowned ever so slightly, as she thought of the Longbeard's irascible cousins, who were more than well known for their scarlet hair and flaming tempers.

"She is not a dwarf of the West," Kíli shook his head. "Master Kivi is a daughter of Thulin, a Stiffbeard."

Dís' eyebrows began to knit over her eyes as she considered her son's news. All eyes fixated on her as she gazed into the fire for a moment and unconsciously nibbled her bottom lip.

"How _odd_ ," the Princess murmured thoughtfully, with a sidelong frown toward Bofur. "You said something about her rebuilding Dale?” Dís pressed. “So, she chooses to live among the Men?”

“Aye, Your Highness,” Bofur confirmed gruffly. “She even said she'd spent time in the south, workin' in Dol Amroth.”

"What a strange lass," Kíli's mother tapped a bejeweled and painted finger against her lips. "A _female_ master mason, a dwarrow-dam, traveling alone among the cities of Men? This in and of itself would be quite curious, but a Stiffbeard as well? They haven't been seen in the West since the great defeat of Azanulbizar."

"She doesn't travel alone," Ori jumped in as Dís took a breath and a pause; he then realized his rudeness and stammered: "M-ma'am."

"A company, then?" Dís' eyebrows rose higher.

"She was accompanied by a man named 'Jarvi', the other day," Kíli, too, was intrigued and he leaned forward in his seat to rest his elbows on his knees. "Her cousin," he frowned slightly, choosing not to mention Jarvi's curious mix of dwarven and Mannish features. "I didn't know that she had other companions."

"Just a few more," Ori explained slowly, not quite sure what his information would mean to the King and the Princess. "There is the Stiffbeard smith, Master Seppä, who has traveled with her. Also, Katrikki, the Ice Elf, and Etsijä, a Man of the Fodorwaith."

"And the two dwarflings," Kíli added; Ori nodded.

"Aye, Master Kivi's niece and nephew."

"Two dwarflings, three Stiffbeards – two masters of their craft – an elf, and a Man," Dís titled her head prettily, but her gaze was quite intense as she looked toward her son. "A curious party, indeed.”

Kíli frowned thoughtfully at his mother and then toward the fire. He, too, chewed his bottom lip for a moment as he considered what Jarvi had revealed about his company's circumstances.

_“There is trouble in the North, in our home of Kivi Torni. We left that home because of it...”_

“I will admit that I know very little about the Stiffbeards, but I have met one, once,” Dís spoke to the fire, her voice and memory taken to ages long past. “Frerin was sent home once during the War, to recover from a severe wound to his shoulder. Thorin could not be spared, so Frerin was accompanied by a Stiffbeard he had befriended, an engineer named Vasara, who was frequently addressed by a title I've never heard since,” Dís paused a moment, to recall the exact name. “Eldest – or Elder – Brother, I think.

“Vasara did not speak much, but he had a good and cheerful spirit. He held his friendship with Frenir in high regard and told me once that he quite respected the Line of Durin. He was proud to give us aid and to travel from the safety of his homeland to help us reclaim ours. He had a saying that has always stuck with me -”

“'You can fall through the ice on your own, but you cannot save yourself,'” Kíli interrupted, the words tumbling from his mouth instinctively.

Color tinged the apples of his cheeks, though, when he realized that he had cut off his mother and he glanced over at her with an apology poised on his tongue. Dís, however, was now looking at him with something like amazement and if she was offended by her son’s disrespect, she didn’t show it.

“How do you know that?” she all but gasped.

“I met Master Kivi in Dale the other day,” Kíli grimaced - his impromptu trips to Dale were something he preferred to keep to himself when possible. “With Bofur. We, ah…” the young king sighed deeply and squared his shoulders defensively as he sat up on his stool. “We exchanged some rather heated words, Master Kivi and I. Toward the end of our conversation, she uttered that very saying and then I called her a hypocrite,” Kíli turned his head up toward the mountain above them, as if seeking divine intervention. “That was not a conversation that ended well.”

“She met you and yet still refused to help Erebor?” Dís seemed even more shocked by that, than by the fact that her son had engaged in a verbal altercation with said mason.

“I don't think I was what she was expecting,” the edges of Kíli’s lips twisted a wry sort of half-smile and he glanced down at his hands, which hung casually between his knees. “Her cousin thought I was a Stiffbeard, too, and greeted me accordingly. I think she thought the same as well, at first.”

Kíli thought back to the look on Kivi’s face, when she had first laid eyes on him. That, truly, was Kíli’s first impression of her - a wide smile, dimpled cheeks, and sparkling eyes. She had seemed surprised, but hopeful, even excited; the change in her expression when he had been revealed as king had been stark.

“She was disappointed to find out who I really was,” Kíli admitted quietly, his mind still turning over the meeting of the day before. “Being surprised and disappointed in one fell swoop would certainly make anyone reluctant to put forth their best selves.”

Bofur grunted.

“I don’t think she ‘as a better self.”

“Master Bard says she does,” Kíli’s broad shoulders rolled beneath his finely-spun tunic.

“I still don’t understand how she can so easily help a Man and not _you_ ,” Bofur continued to object.

“You were there, Bofur. You know the answer to that as well I as do. She said she was not yet ready to trust me,” Kíli pushed a sigh through his teeth and shifted in his seat. “As I'm a total stranger – and all of you within in this mountain by extension – I cannot fault her for that, really.”

A contemplative silence fell over the council room after that. Kíli leaned his elbows on his knees and his hair fell forward to create a sort of curtain about his face. Usually, he hated having his hair in his eyes like that, but he was grateful for the momentary privacy it afforded him. He stared hard at the tips of his boots, seeing past them with barely blinking eyes.

He found Kivi Journeyman fascinating, in spite of her brazen defiance. While he secretly agreed with Bofur and thought Kivi might be a few arrows short of a full quiver, Kíli couldn't shake what Jarvi had said about their reasons for being so far from home. She wasn't simply distrusting and stubborn. By her cousin's own words, Kivi – and all those in her company – was running away from something that lingered far beyond the reaches of Kíli's kingdom. He was starting to think that it was perhaps best that he didn’t immediately involve his own kin in an affair that wasn’t of their own making. Perhaps Kivi's reluctance to throw her lot in with them was more wise, than it was defiant.

“I think that Master Kivi carries secrets with her that may or may not be a danger to Erebor,” Kíli finally lifted his gaze and shook his head to try and move some of his hair from about his face. “Perhaps we should take heed of her choices and observe _her_ for a while, from a distance. Let us make due with Master Alf for now,” he sighed heavily and tried not to think of the response this decision would mostly likely solicit from his growing dissenters. “And wait to see if Master Bard’s high opinion of Master Kivi is warranted.”

Kíli then fixed Ori with a firm gaze.

“How did you know about Master Kivi’s traveling companions?”

The little scribe cleared his throat nervously and answered in his meekest tones.

“I run errands for Óin and pick up herbs, teas, and other medicines from Dale each week. Master Kivi’s companion, the Elf-maid Katrikki, is a skilled healer, with a knowledge of herbs and their uses that so far has no equal in Erebor or Dale. I pick up Óin’s weekly requests from her and,” Ori dropped his gaze from Kíli’s dark eyes, to Kíli’s dark boots. “We talk.”

Frankly, Kíli was rather impressed by Ori’s admission, although the scribe seemed to think that he would anger his king. Ori had always been quite shy and virtually incapable of speech around any member of the fairer sex. Kíli had seen several of the new dwarrow-maids try to strike up conversations with Ori during feasts. On more than one occasion, what he had seen had made the young king chuckle - not unkindly - into his ale, as he watched Ori turn bright red and all but flee from the festivities. The idea that Ori would voluntarily converse with a woman of _any_ race was quite novel.

 _Perhaps there's hope for him after all,_ Kíli couldn't help a fleeting grin (which Ori missed, thankfully).

"What is the nature of your conversations?" Balin asked gently. "And don't look down, Ori. You've done nothing wrong."

"Unusual," Dori grunted with eyebrows raised at his youngest brother's uncharacteristic confession. "But, not wrong."

Encouraged by Balin's smile and Dori's assurance that all was well, Ori looked up from the floor and met Kíli's eyes again.

"We talk mostly of herbs and their uses. Katrikki will tell me tales of her childhood and legends of the North. She has told me a little of the history of the Stiffbeards and their culture. She has been silent about what brought her and her companions to the West, though. I must confess that I haven't wanted to pry," Ori made a face, as if kicking himself mentally for not being more nosy.

Kíli sensed Ori's chagrin and waved his hand dismissively.

"There's been no reason for you to dig into their business," his hand then turned to brush thoughtfully across the stubble along his jawline. "And there still _isn't_ good cause, really."

The king leaned back on his stool, until his lower back bumped softly up against the edge of the Council table. He folded his arms over his chest and considered his words before speaking again.

"Have you recorded any of your conversations with Mistress Katrikki?"

It was well known among those who had traveled with Ori to Erebor that he wrote down _everything_. Or, at least, it certainly seemed that way. He was never without quill or book, and the tips of his fingers were always blackened by ink. If he wasn't writing, he was drawing; once, Fíli had jokingly asked if Ori planned to scribe what they all ate for dinner in the Royal Chronicles. A joke that might have been, but it wasn’t too far from the truth. Ori had admitted to Fíli that while, no, what they ate for dinner was not exactly worthy of the Chronicles, he did jot down details about each day in his own personal journal.

As Kíli suspected, the sandy-haired scribe nodded his head in the affirmative; the braids that framed his face swished merrily against his cheeks.

“Yes, sire. I’ve kept a detailed account of our meetings.”

“Excellent,” Kíli stood up and stretched with a yawn that he made no attempt to hide. “Would you drop your notes off at my chamber, before you go to bed? I’d like to read them.”

Ori looked like he didn’t know whether to be pleased or concerned. He settled for a careful smile and a meek bow of his head.

“Of course. I can go and fetch my journal now, if you’d like.”

“Please,” Kíli stifled another yawn with the burly width of his right forearm.

Everyone else who had been sitting (except for Dís) stood when Kíli rose to his feet. Ori was the first to move toward the door; the others could tell that their king was bringing their meeting to a close, but waited patiently for him to officially dismiss them. Just as Glóin stepped aside to let Ori grasp the door’s cumbersome bolt, Kíli called to his friend to stop for just a moment.

“Just so you know, Ori,” Kíli dropped some of his formality for the moment - it was still hard for him to be “the King” to his peers and close companions at all times. “I’m not asking you to spy on Master Kivi or anyone else. Please continue having your conversations with Madame Katrikki in whatever way suits you best. I only ask that you let me read your notes each week - _any_ information about the Stiffbeards and their kin is of value.”

“Will you not ask Master Kivi to rebuild Erebor?” encouraged by Kíli’s informal address, Ori turned a little more fully toward his king, though his hand still lingered on the bolt.

“Not for now,” Kíli sighed heavily and ran a hand through his long, slightly-tangled hair. “I think it’s best if we keep our distance for a time. We will rely on Master Alf and Bofur, and whatever help can be gathered from those who remain.”

“What about the Council of Lords? That’s a mere six days away,” Ori pressed hesitantly, as if he feared the answer.

“The dice fall where they may,” Kíli’s hand fell to his side with a half-hearted shrug. “There is only so much that can be done to influence the will of others,” his eyes grew dark with a determination he hadn’t felt since standing up to Thorin over breaking his promise to Dale. “To use Bofur’s word, I will not _grovel_ before any of the Khazâd - Stiffbeard, Longbeard, or otherwise.”

* * *

 

Kíli stretched out on top of his bed with a contented groan. It had been a seemingly endless day and he was glad to be finally free of it. He felt, however, that he had ended it on a positive note, as his declaration to stand tall against his opposition among the Western dwarrow had been met with vocal approval from his councilors.

He decided, however, not to spend any further time ruminating over the events of the day. What was done was done and he was quite tired of thinking over any of it. Kíli treasured his time alone - even when Fíli had been alive, Kíli would often steal away from his brother’s side and spend a few hours by himself. The two of them had appeared inseparable to the outside world and indeed, during the quest for Erebor they had been, but Kíli had always needed time to be on his own. Of the two of them, Fíli was actually the extrovert, although he hid it well behind the austere mask of the heir apparent. Kíli, however, was an introvert - a fact that many never realized, for all of the young Durin’s chatter in his princely days. Fíli had always enjoyed dealing with people and never seemed to tire of them - Kíli had always been quite the opposite, preferring instead to deal with the world in his own way and time.

A mug of half-drunk tea stood on his bedside table, just within reach, and Ori’s blue-dyed leather journal lay across Kíli’s bare stomach. He had quickly divested himself of his fine clothing the instant his bedroom door had closed behind him; all that remained were his pants, which hung low on his hips without the aid of a belt. The luxurious, silky strands of the wolf pelt that covered one side of the enormous bed was warm against his lower back, and the fluffy pillows propped up behind his shoulders did their best to lure him to sleep. A large window to the left of his bed had been opened and a warm, almost-summer breeze wafted pleasantly across his skin.

Yawning loudly, Kíli picked up Ori’s journal, determined to finish the last few entries before he allowed himself to finally fall asleep. So far, the reading had been - as Ori had promised - quite fascinating and Kíli was beginning to piece together a portrait of life in the Northern Wastes.

Ori and Katrikki had talked more about the Stiffbeards than Ori had let on in the Council Room, and it was this information that Kíli prized the most. They were a complex dwarrow and, according to Katrikki’s claim, the wealthiest of the Eastern Houses – a fact that they hid behind a surprising humility. The Stiffbeards were a proud people, however - as proud as any Durin’s son - and apparently perceived themselves as the leaders of the dwarrow in the East.

Kíli made a quick note in a journal of his own, which lay on the bed to his right - he intended to ask Balin about the Stiffbeard’s claim of superiority within the North and East. For all that he had grown up in his brother’s and uncle’s shadows, Kíli knew little about the politics between Eastern and Western Khazâd. Did the House of Thulin truly rule over the East? Could they therefore claim equal status with their Western counterparts among Durin's folk? If so, it could easily explain Kivi's unwillingness to bow to Erebor's crown.

Kíli eyed his inelegant scribbles and thanked Mahal that Balin would never see the inside of his own journal. Penmanship had never been his strong-suit, for all of Dís’ valiant efforts and Thorin’s thunderous criticisms.

Turning back to Ori’s memories, Kíli rubbed a hand absently across the thick, black hair that covered the broad expanse of his chest. His fingers lingered subconsciously against the jagged, star-shaped scar left by Bolg, but for once, his concentration wasn’t derailed by the feel of his puckered skin. He flipped a page with his other hand and Ori’s latest account - dated two weeks before - thoroughly captured his interest.

“ _...A most curious thing happened today, when I went to visit Katrikki’s apothecary. It was a quick meeting, so we did not have our usual opportunity to talk about things that didn’t pertain to my errand. But, Katrikki was as beautiful and gracious as always; she offered me a cup of a new blend she had made, and I stayed for about half of an hour to enjoy her company._

_“Katrikki was quite busy - apparently, Dale’s younger denizens have been experiencing a rash of **morbilli** and she had been working without stop. She took the time to wrap up Oin’s requests as always and we chatted quite pleasantly about tinctures and ointments suitable for childhood ailments. As we were talking, however, we had an unprecedented visitor – Master Kivi all but burst into the apothecary, her expression quite perplexed._

_“She did not see me, as I was sitting at the far end of Katrikki’s great big table, in the shadows toward the back of the store. Without any preamble at all, Master Kivi asked Katrikki if she had a mixture of **Klamath weed** and **lavandula**. Katrikki seemed quite surprised, but answered that she did; I must confess I was quite shocked myself, as Klamath weed and lavandula are strong treatments for terrors of the mind and anxieties of the heart. Katrikki immediately set about making another tea for Master Kivi to take with her; they talked quietly as she worked, but I could hear quite clearly what was said._

_“When Katrikki asked why she would need such a mixture in the middle of the day, Master Kivi admitted that some of her workmen had been sharing with her details of Smaug’s desolation and the Battle of the Five Armies. Master Kivi confessed that the workmen were, perhaps, a little too detailed in their accounts and had triggered ‘memories of the Harrowing’. I saw that her hands shook quite noticeably when she took her tea from Katrikki. While I cannot fathom what this ‘Harrowing’ might have been, it was clearly distressing enough to affect Master Kivi from words alone. Her reaction - her wide eyes, shaking body, and roughened voice - are too similar to what I have seen in Dori and Nori, when the night terrors awaken them and the memories of our devastations come back to them. Klamath weed and lavandula is what I pick up each week, as well, for the King, to manage his own memories and heartaches._

_“Master Kivi left without ever once glimpsing me in the corner. Katrikki did not swear me to secrecy, but she did give me a look once the Master had left, that quite clearly asked me to keep this knowledge to myself. I do not know what haunts Master Kivi, but I would not deign to dishonor it by spreading about word of what I’ve seen. Some great calamity has touched the lives of our Northern kin and I do hope Katrikki – or even Master Kivi herself – may trust me well enough one day to tell me what they have seen.”_

Ori’s journal lay open for many long moments after Kíli had concluded his reading. He drew one knee up as he pressed his right foot into the mattress; his left arm slid under his neck, to prop his head up as he frowned up at the deep blue drapes that covered the top of his four-poster bed.

“What _is_ your story, Kivi Journeyman?” he gently asked the night in a voice deepened by thought and exhaustion. “And _who_ are you?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Durin’s Bane – the name given to the Balrog of Moria/Khazad-dûm.
> 
> Morbilli – another name for measles.
> 
> Klamath weed – another name for St. John's Wort, which is an herbal treatment for mild-to-moderate depression.
> 
> Lavandula – another name for lavender, which is traditionally used to calm one's nerves (anxiety).


	10. The Harrowing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Kivi revisits her past...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It gets a little heavy in this chapter, folks. Trigger warnings: violence, character death, trauma, etc...all the fun stuff that comes with war and killing.

“ _We must awake, our lives to make  
And in the darkness a torch we hold.”_

“ **Song of the Lonely Mountain”**

**Neil Finn**

* * *

**Izgilnurt (Iz) 'Afkalm 27th**

_(Monday April 26th)_

_**Dale** _

* * *

 

 _"Kyllikko! Keep up,_ _ **Pikkusisko**_ _."_ [ _"_ Little Sister _"_ ]

The words echoed through Kivi's mind, as she tossed about in a restless sleep. His was a voice she could never quite forget, whether awake or sleeping. She remembered the strength of his shoulders, the warm skin of his bared arms, and the cool, hardened leather of his intricately tooled chest-plate. She remembered his long hair, free of braids as was the tradition of their unmarried men; it was as dark as a losrandir's summer coat. She remembered the way it felt against her cheek, when he stooped to pick her up.

 _She had tripped on a bit of stone that jutted unevenly from the otherwise smooth staircase beneath her feet. The darkened stairwell up which her savior and she was fleeing was ancient - an old escape way, built long ago by her fore-mothers, when Kivi Torni was still young. Kiinteä had grabbed her from the chaos and carnage of the Sky Hall, where she had been watching her father, Oskari, hold an open court on behalf of her mother. The joyous news had been shared during the Midsummer Fest, which had just ended a mere handful of days before, that_ _ **Äiti**_ _Taavi, Chieftain of the Stiffbeards, was four months pregnant with the third heir of Thulin. Oskari,_ _as the High Shaman_ _, had proclaimed the unborn babe a girl, based on the portents read in bone and wood. Taavi was reclining in her private chambers at the top of the mountain's namesake tower and much of the ruling would pass to Oskari until the birth._ [“Mother”]

 _Kylli had been standing next to her father when the_ _ **Kivi Vartija**_ _sounded the alarm. The Strongest Father - as Oskari was officially known - had been holding his daughter's hand gently, her small forearm resting on top of his, when the fell Ironfist lord stormed into the Hall with a clash of bloodied steel. Oskari had turned only long enough to tell Kylli to hide, before he roared to his feet and drew a sword from the scabbard of the startled_ Vartija _standing beside the Chair of Council._ [“Stone Guard”]

 _Kylli had been transfixed, however, by the sight of her flame-haired father thundering into the fray, intent on challenging the obsidian-armored Ironfists. Despite her father's rallying cry to the Vartija, the Hall was a slaughter, as only the_ Vartija _could enter before the Seats of Thulin while armed. The Ironfists quickly carved their way through the merchants, farmers, herders, and other assorted common-folk who had gathered to seek council from their “Isä”. The sentry bells, however, were clanging furiously, summoning all those within hearing distance to hurry the aid of their kinfolk._

_Oskari's curved sword met the saw-toothed edge of the Lord Ironfist's hooked seax, but before Kylli could watch much more of her father's fight, her upper arm was grabbed by a vice-like hand. She screamed, but the sound of it was lost in the din of death and battle that sullied the brightly-lit walls of the Hall._

_"Kylli! It's me! Kiinteä!"_

_She beat her knuckles against the hard shell of his leather armor once, twice, before realizing who had taken a hold of her. Startled, she stared up into familiar eyes as deep and smoky-brown as the colored quartz so greatly favored by their kin._

_"Kiin!" Kylli threw her arms around his hard waist and buried her face in the uncomfortable angles of his armor._

_"Not now, Kyl," Kiin gently pulled her off of him and grabbed her wrist; he threw an uncertain eye around them, but the_ Vartija _had managed to keep the Ironfists from advancing any further toward her father’s abandoned seat._

_Kylli followed his gaze and saw her father's stout body - ever so slightly taller and leaner than other dwarrow men - heave furiously against the armored might of his burlier opponent. All she could see was a flash of bright steel stained with blood and her father's thick red braids flying about in his wake. Kiin pulled her firmly along behind him before she could witness any more and made a beeline for a small antechamber just behind her father's high-backed Chair._

_The young heir of Thulin allowed herself to be led away, although her heart twisted painfully in fear for her father. The Sky Hall_ _had erupted into a melee of steel and gore, but she had seen enough to know that the invading swords were sharp and that the Ironfist's grotesquely-shaped black armor was true. She had seen blood stain the white granite stones of her home and in mere moments, she had seen more than one of her kin - dwarf, Elf, Man - torn in half by jagged blades._

_Kylli followed Kiin without question - she was just on the cusp of her first moon and a young dwarfling in that awkward stage between child and adolescent. But, she knew what she was to Kiin and what Kiin to her; they had grown up together, she always looking up to him, as he was seven years her elder. But, despite their age difference, Kiin had been her dearest friend all of her life; now that she was growing older, their friendship was just beginning to deepen with the first blush of something sweeter._

_Kiin was the only son of the Captain of the_ Vartija _\- the jovial, but deadly, Miekka. He had been initiated into the_ Kivi Vartija _three years earlier and was one of the youngest_ Vartija _currently serving in Kivi Torni. Miekka was, himself, of common birth, but that was of little significance to the “Äiti” or the “Isä” – to Taavi or Oskari – as men were in such lesser numbers to women among their House. It also didn’t hurt that Miekka had grown up with Oskari and the two had remained fast friends throughout the years; where Oskari went, Miekka was very rarely far behind. The same could be said for their offspring - Kiin had long ago determined that he was to be Kylli’s constant companion._

_And now, he had become Kylli’s protector._

“ _Where are you taking me?” Kylli asked only once._

_Kiin whisked her into the antechamber and threw his shoulder hastily against a certain granite block, next to a smiling statue of Yavanna - who was, perhaps more revered among the Stiffbeards than any of the other dwarrow, for their dependency on the earth above, as much on the earth below. A grinding sound accompanied the shift of two blocks by their feet; Kylli stared, wide-eyed, as an entrance was revealed in the base of the wall before them._

“ _To Äiti,” he promised, with a jerk of his chin toward the levels above them._

_The entrance into the secret passageway was low, so they both had to crawl through; Kiin let Kylli go first, in case part of the battle in the Hall behind them spilled over into the antechamber. But, she was able to stand up on the other side and brush off her buttery-soft leather pants without incident. Kiin followed, pushed a corresponding stone in the cool darkness around them, and sealed them into the ancient tunnel. For several long moments, there was a scraping and shuffling from where Kiin stood, as he struck a flint and lit a crystal lamp that had been left on a hook just inside the passage._

“ _C’mon," he urged her toward a spiraling set of stairs and the two started the arduous journey up the whole length of Gabilzahar’s great tower._

_They went as fast as they could, jogging up each flight of stairs, but Kylli began to tire a quarter of the way up. It was then that she caught the tip of her boot against the rough stone and fell forward with a muffled cry. Before she could even gather that she had skinned her right knee and both of her palms, Kiin had swooped down to pick her up. As if she weighed nothing (which was certainly not true of any dwarf at any age), he cradled her in his arms and continued the long climb up._

_Kylli was too frightened by everything that had happened, to do anything other than accept Kiin’s comfort and to take the swinging crystal lamp from him while both of his hands were full of her still-slight body. She curled one arm around his powerful neck and hid her face in his hair, which covered his shoulders in a tangled disarray. She would remember, ever after, how her bright locks seemed to tangle into his like ribbons of molten bronze._

_Kiin had to pause several times on his way up; despite his endurance and strength from hours of hard training, the seemingly never-ending stairs were an exhausting challenge. A few times, Kylli tried to urge him to let her down, but Kiin just tightened his arms around her and shook his head, lips pressed into a thin line of determination._

_Kylli would never quite know how long it took for them to get from the base of the tower to the top, but her best guess in later reflections would place their time at a half of an hour or even more. However long had passed, it was enough for their emergence from behind Äiti Taavi’s full-length chamber mirror to be greeted with the sight of their chief fighting for her life._

_Miekka was sprawled across the floor in front of the arched chamber doorway, impaled through the chest with an iron javelin. His thick black hair mercifully covered most of his face, so both young dwarves were spared the sight of his empty gray eyes, which had just hours before, laughed at his son as they left their quarters for the day. Kiin stumbled in shock and Kylli could feel his knees tremble uncertainly beneath their combined weight and sudden grief. The grinding slide and scrape of steel tore both of their eyes away from the Captain’s broken body; Taavi stood bravely in the center of her spacious, circular chamber, arms braced at the level of her chest as she caught the Ironfist’s downward strike against the mithril handle of her war mallet._

“ _Äiti!” Kylli cried out without thinking; she immediately reached out for her mother and in her haste, dropped the crystal lantern that Kiin had given to her for safe-keeping._

_Her cry and the bitter chime of breaking glass startled both Taavi and her opponent. Waist-long braids of golden hair flashed between Taavi and the Ironfist warrior, as the Stiffbeard Chieftain turned her head - just for a second - in shock toward the unexpected sound of her daughter’s voice._

_It was a second she couldn’t spare. Kylli watched in horror as the Ironfist surged abruptly toward her mother’s body. His sword disappeared into the softly-rounded curve of her stomach. Taavi’s eyes flashed wide in pain and a soft gasp spilled from her lips as her mallet crashed into the floor at her side. Kiin’s knees finally buckled, struck with horror as he was himself, and Kylli tumbled from his arms as he lost his balance._

“ _Äiti!” she screamed again; she didn’t even pay heed to the pain that shot up through her scraped knee as it connected hard against the stones for a second time that day._

_No sooner did Kylli feel the smooth, white marble floor beneath her, than she started scrambling as quickly as she could toward her mother’s body. The Ironfist had triumphantly torn his sword back out through her mother’s body and gore dripped like liquid hate from the tip of his blade, as he leered at the tragic tableau that he had created._

_Kiin recovered his senses long enough to draw his long-handled ax from its sheath across his strong back. As Kylli knelt, weeping, at her mother’s fallen side, Kiin launched himself toward the Ironfist with a shout of his own._

“ _ **Kunniaan**_ _!” his cry echoed through the open, airy chamber._ [“For honor!”]

_Kiin was no match for the Ironfist, but he did manage to surprise the more experienced dwarf. Enough so, that his ax struck true in the narrow, unguarded space between the enemy’s gorget and right pauldron. What happened after that, Kylli never quite knew, as her attention went directly toward her gasping mother._

_Taavi had her hands pressed firmly against the ragged gash that tore open her flesh from hip to hip. The sword had cut her low across her belly, at a slightly horizontal angle across the swelling that had just begun to show. Kylli averted her eyes and tried to keep her gaze firmly fixed on Taavi's face - she had no desire to know what her mother was so desperately trying to keep inside of her. The stench of death, blood, and gore clogged Kylli's nose as she bent, weeping softly, over her mother. Bile rose in the back of the young dwarf's throat, but she fought it down and tried to soothe the sharp creases of pain that now lined Taavi's forehead._

_"Äiti," her whisper was almost lost in the clash of steel against steel that raged behind them. "Please, Äiti..." the plea died on her lips; Kylli had been in the world long enough to know that her beloved mother would not survive her mortal wound._

_Tears blurred her eyes, even as Kylli tried desperately to memorize the shape of Taavi's face._

_"Kyllikko," Taavi's voice was so faint that Kylli had to bend her ear almost to her mother's lips in order to catch what was being said._

_The dying chieftain drew a ragged breath and Kylli could hear it rattle inside of her mother's chest. The tears came fast and hot, spilling over Kylli's brightly flushed cheeks and disappearing into her mother's beautiful blond braids._

_" **Ole nyt vuori,**_

_**Ole nyt kivi,** _

_**Ole nyt Äiti**_ _," ancient words brushed softly against Kylli's skin, carried ever so tenuously on her mother's breath._ ["Be now the mountain, / Be now the stone, / Be now the Mother."]

_Kylli recognized the words; they shocked her so soundly that for several long moments, her sobs caught inside her throat. She stared, wide-eyed and desperate, at her mother, as Taavi continued to speak, her breath rattling louder with each word._

_" **Olen Kahdesti nimi,**_

“ _ **Kiven tytär Thulin**_ _."_ ["I Twice Name you, / Kivi, daughter of Thulin."]

_"No, Äiti," Kylli finally found her voice and began to shake her head in wild disbelief._

_Her hands sought her mother's and, quivering with the force of her sobs, Kylli tried herself to hold Taavi's broken body together. Blood leaked thick and warm across her fingers and the young dwarfling could only wail as her palms pressed desperately against the gore that threatened to spill out on to the floor between them._

_" **Mahal siunatkoon sinua,**_

_**Päällikkö Pohjois.**_ _"_ ["Mahal bless you, / Chief of the North."]

_"Äiti, no," Kylli - now newly re-named "Kivi" - finally placed her forehead against her mother's and let her tears mingle with Taavi's._

_With her final words, Taavi had sealed her daughter's fate - the Horned Crown had now been handed over to the next generation._

_"K-Kivi," Taavi could barely speak, but she had one last thing to say, one last attempt to spare the line of Thulin. "C-c-" her mouth, her tongue, couldn't quite form words any more, but she finally managed to gasp a single name: "N-Nopea."_

_Kivi shook her head, not understanding what her mother was commanding of her. She hiccuped through her tears and listened in horror as the rattle in her mother's chest reached its peak -_

_And then stopped._

_Kivi's whole body froze, as her mind clawed through an overwhelming wave of denial. Frightened, confused, horrified, Kivi frantically moved her hands over her mother's hair, face, neck. After several anguished moments, the dwarfling realized that she was smearing blood wherever her fingers fell. A keening cry tore itself out of her throat, as she snatched her hands away, held them tight against her own stomach, and bent over in indescribable grief._

_Before she could truly work herself into a good wail, a hand grabbed her arm for a second time that day and roughly hauled her to her feet. Kivi immediately twisted around to fight whoever had a hold of her, but she stopped just short of shoving her small fist into Kiin's already crooked nose._

_She blinked dully through her tears - in her sorrow, she had quite forgotten about Kiin._

_And the Ironfist._

_Kivi whipped her head around toward the chamber door; Kiin had somehow managed to lure the Ironfist out of the room and had bolted the solid oak door shut between them. The new Chieftain stared, agape, at the door, and then at Kiin - only then, did she realize that his face was deathly pale. Confused, her eyes dropped and she saw, to her great dismay, that where his right hand had been, was now a bloody stump held stiffly to his chest._

_"Kiin," Kivi's voice was low and hoarse; she looked from his mangled limb to his wan face._

_He just shook his head, as if to shrug the whole thing off. His gaze lingered sadly on the floor behind Kivi and tears filled his own eyes as he realized that Taavi had gone to the Halls of Waiting._

_"Nopea," his own voice was a rough scrape against the eerie silence around them. "We need to call Nopea."_

_What her mother meant finally clicked into place inside of Kivi's head. Nopea was the Great Pale Owl that had bonded with Taavi a quarter of a century before. The enormous bird was big enough to carry a grown dwarf, much less a prepubescent dwarfling. Kivi then realized why Kiin had brought her up to her mother's chamber in the first place - Nopea's nest was said to be on the mountain ridge directly adjacent to the tower. The wide balcony that hugged half of the tower's exterior was large enough for Nopea to land on, so that Kivi could climb onto her back._

_She had been brought to the Tower to escape._

_All of this flashed through Kivi's mind as Kiin hustled her away from Taavi's broken body and toward the crystal balcony doors. They had already been opened to let the gentle summer breeze waft across the interior of the chamber, so it took no time at all for the two young dwarves to rush to the delicately carved granite banister that separated them from the vast emptiness of mountain air._

_Kivi put two fingers in her mouth and blew hard; her whistle cracked loudly like thunder across the towering peaks around them. As her whistle called to their white-winged deliverer, the chamber door behind them shuddered ominously. Frightened, Kivi glanced over her shoulder, to see the tiniest tip of steel glimmer from the center of the thick pine panels. Alarmed, she whistled again and leaned over the balcony to see if she could catch a glimpse of Nopea's nest. Kivi had to crane her neck to see the near northern peak and Kiin grabbed a hold of her woven belt, to keep her feet steady on the stones beneath them._

_The door groaned; Kivi didn't dare risk another glance behind her._

_"Nopea!" she screamed in desperation._

_The distinctive sound of splitting wood shot through the quiet chamber. Kivi began to shiver in terror and she turned wide eyes toward Kiin, as if to silently ask, "where is she?"_

_"There!" Kiin hissed; he threw a hasty look over toward the door and his face tightened in alarm._

_But, he distracted Kivi from what was happening behind them, by jerking his chin toward the southern slopes to their right. A bobbing white form grew larger and larger, giant wings propelling the graceful Nopea rapidly toward their desperate last stand._

_For a whole minute, Kivi's heart soared in hope. Her mother - through Nopea - would rescue her one last time. And whatever lay on the horizon, she thought she could perhaps face it bravely, with Kiin at her side._

_But, Nopea never made it to the balcony._

_A rain of fire arched up from the slopes, toward the magnificent owl. She screamed - her cry high and otherworldly - as several arrows found their mark and set her ablaze. Kivi’s cries joined Nopea’s, as her mother’s totem wove drunkenly in the air for the span of several agonizing screeches. Then her powerful wings went limp and she plummeted toward the jagged cliffs below her._

_Kivi was beyond the point of articulation; she shrieked her grief and horror into the wind. She turned to throw her arms around Kiin, to grab a hold of the one being she had left at her side, and stopped to stare in disbelief at the knife that had seemingly sprouted between his shoulder blades. Confused, the young dwarrow-maid turned her head toward the broken shards of her mother’s bedroom door and to the black-armored Ironfist who stood triumphantly in the middle of the blood-soaked floor._

“ _Kyllikko…” Kiin’s last word was her True Name, whispered in a mixture of shock and sorrow._

_Kivi could only choke on a plaintive sob, as Kiin’s knees buckled and he fell forward toward the railing. Out of sheer instinct, Kivi threw herself beneath the momentum of his body and grabbed him around the waist. His dead weight was abrupt and knocked her own feet out from under her. The two collapsed to the floor, but Kivi was beyond caring. She had kept Kiin from pitching forward over the banister and onto the mountain below. Heart in her throat, she tried to ease him as carefully as she could to the floor, on his side. Hoping against hope, her hands fell about his face and neck, searching for a pulse, for a breath, for a sign of life._

_Before she could come to terms with the fact that Kiin - her best friend and the man she had begun to dream of one day marrying - was as breathless as her mother, Kivi was hauled away from his body by her hair. She found her voice again, and she began to scream obscenities at the enemy that cruelly dragged her away from Kiin’s body._

“ _What is this?” a sinister, gravelly voice cut sharply through Kivi’s violent attempts to break free of the fist that held her captive._

_The Ironfist who had a hold of her roughly forced her to turn away from the balcony, away from Kiin, and to face the door. The lord who had lead the slaughter in the Sky Hall contemptuously kicked Miekko’s body out of his way, as he stepped through the shattered doorway._

“ _The whore’s daughter, Lord Synkkä,” Kivi’s captor grunted in the guttural tones of Khuzdul. “The heir-child.”_

_Kivi didn’t hear what Synkkä said in response, as she was exhausting herself in an attempt to gather her feet beneath her. The room was silent, except for the sound of her boots slipping across the patterned white-and-gold marble tiles, as her captor all but tossed her toward Synkkä’s spike-tipped boots. A soft groan slipped from her lips as her hands slipped in Taavi’s drying blood. Too overcome with her emotions to look up, Kivi closed her eyes and kept her face bowed toward the floor._

_Synkkä mistook her position as one of submission. He made a pleased sort of sound above her and Kivi could sense him bending over, reaching for her._

Please, Father, help me! _her soul cried out to Mahal as if on sheer instinct._

_Synkkä’s fingers brushed the top of her hair...and an incandescent rage flared up inside of the dwarfling. Kivi opened her eyes, intending to push herself to her feet and to push Synkkä’s hand away from her, but the glint of mithril caught her attention._

_Her training took over. Before the Ironfist lord could grab a hold of her, Kivi gritted her teeth, rolled neatly over the gore-slicked floor, and scrambled desperately over her mother’s corpse. Everything in her rebelled against her sudden disregard for Taavi’s body, but Kivi felt as if possessed. Her hands reached out and she grasped the heavy handle of her mother’s war mallet as she sprang nimbly to her feet._

_With a shout of defiance, Kivi rose proudly to her full height, her muscles taut with the strain of lifting the heavy mallet. With a strength she didn’t know she had, the dwarfling heaved the mallet up and to the ready. Her eyes - narrowed with hate and fury - scraped over Synkkä’s armor, looking instinctively for a tactical advantage. With a hiss pushed through her teeth, she hefted the mallet up higher above her chest and shoulders, ready to aim its heavy weight toward the center of his broad torso._

_But, then her eyes caught sight of the hideous prize swinging grotesquely from Synkkä’s belt -_

_The head of her father, his red hair matted with blood, his face marred by what looked like a blow from an ax, his blue eyes like painted glass - dead and cold._

_The fury-fueled bravery that had given her the strength to challenge the Ironfist lord drained abruptly from her. Fear tightened its icy grip around her heart and Kivi’s arms dropped beneath the weight of her ancestral weapon. The mallet cracked the marble between her and Synkkä._

_It took her several long seconds, however, to realize that the scream that ripped through the room was not hers._

_Synkkä had stepped forward during her moment of panic. When Kivi dropped the mallet, it did more than crush her mother’s carefully crafted tiles - half of Synkkä’s left foot had found its unfortunate way beneath the mallet’s flashing diamond head._

_She was too appalled to scream. Stunned, Kivi froze, her hands still wrapped around the wooden handle that was so very cold against her palms. She stared, wide-eyed at Synkkä, too overwhelmed by the rapid series of events to react in any other way. As a result, she never saw the Ironfist’s steel-covered hand flying across the distance between them._

_The back of the dwarf lord’s hand landed hard against Kivi’s right cheek; her head whipped abruptly to the side from the force of the blow and her fingers finally slipped from around her weapon. The world grew dark as she slumped to the floor._

When Kivi regained consciousness, she was laying tangled up in the sheets of her bed. Her chest heaved, her throat was sore from her cries, and a timid little voice whispered out of the depths of the dark room to her left -

“ _Täti_?”

Confused, Kivi shook her head, visions of the Harrowing still trying to bleed through from the past. The small voice came closer and she bolted up in her bed as a soft hand tentatively reached out to touch her left foot.

“ _Täti_?”

“Keri?” Kivi licked her lips and hoarsely asked the darkness.

The past began to fade, as the present became more real.

“Yes,” Keri confirmed her presence and the gentle hand now moved more boldly up to grasp the very tips of Kivi’s shaking fingers. “ _Täti_?”

“Yes, Keri?” Kivi took a deep breath in an attempt to steady her breathing; she opened up her hand and pressed her palm against her niece's.

“Why are you crying?”

Kivi’s only answer was to roughly swallow a sob; she reached out to grab Keri’s narrow shoulders and pulled her up into the bed. The two said nothing more and Keri, with the intuitiveness of youth, seemed to understand that she had asked a question that her aunt couldn’t answer. So, the dwarfling curled into Kivi’s arms, as she used to do when much younger, and listened silently as her aunt cried herself to sleep.

 


	11. Not A Matter of Choice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jarvi speaks the truth, whether Kivi wants to hear it or not...

“ _From long ago when lanterns burned  
Till this day our hearts have yearned.”_

“ **Song of the Lonely Mountain”**

**Neil Finn**

* * *

**Akhlathnurt (Akh) 'Afkalm 28th**

_(Tuesday April 27th)_

_**Dale** _

* * *

 

 

“Well, you look like you’ve just exchanged a few blows with Durin’s Bane,” Jarvi lifted a bushy auburn eyebrow at his wan-skinned cousin.

Kivi just leveled him with her best glare and responded with a particularly unattractive grunt. Jarvi, who usually responded to the world at large with a belly-laugh and a grin, startled Kivi with his unusually solemn expression. She paused and met his level gaze with a quizzical frown, the copper kettle in her hands all but forgotten.

“Keri tells me that you were dreaming last night,” the Umli titled his stool back and braced his broad shoulders against the wall of Kivi’s large, one-room home.

“The Harrowing,” Kivi said by way of answer; she shrugged and cast her eyes down toward her waiting wooden mug.

She didn’t want to have this discussion with Jarvi - not again and for the hundredth time since they had settled in the West. So, she tried, as she always did, to say as little as possible and look anywhere but at her cousin’s compassionate eyes.

The conversation, however, took an unexpected turn.

“You need to talk to Keri and Kal about that.”

“About what?” Kivi looked up abruptly, her voice sharp.

“About the Harrowing,” Jarvi narrowed his eyes at her from across the thick oak table that dominated the left corner of the room, beside the gently smoldering fireplace. “About what happened to their parents. About what happened to our people.”

“When they’re older,” Kivi shook her head stubbornly; she had not yet braided her hair for the day and her long, free-flowing locks all but covered her face.

“They are practically the same age as you were when the Harrowing took place,” Jarvi’s voice was hard, unforgiving.

“And I was completely unprepared for it,” the master mason snapped, her ire rising. “My innocence was taken from me that day without my consent or choosing. The least that I can do is to spare my brother’s children the memories of that horror for as long as I am able.”

“Keri is beginning to ask questions,” Jarvi’s voice deepened in reflection of his own disapproval and frustration. “As is Kal. Keri didn’t even greet me this morning - the first words from her mouth were, ‘why does _Täti_ cry?’ How am I supposed to answer that, Kivi?” the stool’s legs thumped loudly on the bare wooden floor beneath their feet.

Jarvi pushed himself off of the wall and leaned intently toward his cousin.

“And Kal is beginning to question why he has no father, no male dwarves, to guide him.”

“He has you,” Kivi evaded most of what Jarvi said; her gaze dropped again to her mug and she busied herself by pouring the hot water from the kettle over the mixture of tea leaves that she had selected for her morning brew. “And Seppä.”

“I am not wholly a dwarf,” Jarvi countered, heat beginning to rise into his rough voice. “And Seppä is the very best of dwarves, but he is unable to give Kal what he needs.”

“And what does Kal ‘ _need_ ’?” Kivi slammed the kettle down on the table with a bit more force than she had intended; her eyes flashed in challenge.

“What Kal _needs_ is to be given the chance to try his hand at mallet and chisel,” Jarvi’s jaw jutted stubbornly.

For a long moment, there was silence. Kivi stared stupidly at her cousin, startled by what he had said. Whatever she had expected, this was not it.

“I had only started to notice his interest myself, since we came here to Dale,” the red-headed half-dwarf leaned his elbows on his knees, his eyes never straying to the right or the left, but boring steadily into Kivi’s face. “And, really, it was Seppä who noted it first. Kal is fascinated by what you do, Kivi. Have you not seen him trying to read your journals and your drafts, when you have them scattered all about the table?” Jarvi waved a nimble hand at the slab of wood between them.

Kivi _had_ actually noticed that, but she hadn’t thought anything of it. Her face began to flush as she realized what it was that Jarvi was getting at - she hadn’t been paying as much attention to the talents of her nephew as she should have been.

“Kal and Keri are both old enough - _far_ old enough - to start learning their craft,” Jarvi continued doggedly, knowing that he wasn’t going to get much of an admission from his stubborn chieftain. “Kal should be spending his time with masons and engineers - with _you_ ,” his hand gestured through the air again. “And Keri? Keri is much more like your father, Kivi, like the Umli. She loves trees, open skies, the hunt, and grand adventures. She has a warrior’s heart, _serkku_ , and should be learning to craft her weapons in Seppä’s forge.”

Kivi’s hands moved restlessly around her mug; her fingers fiddled idly with the handle, as it sat steaming on the tabletop before her. Her eyebrows were knit close together and she was scowling for all she was worth at Jarvi. Anger welled up inside of her, but she kept her mouth shut. She wisely recognized that her anger had nothing to do with Jarvi, but with herself. She had not noticed any of these things about her niece and nephew...and she, their rightful guardian.

“Then it is settled,” she finally ground out into the uncomfortable silence. “Kal will start coming to the wall with me and Keri will start an apprenticeship with Seppä.”

“It is _not_ settled,” Jarvi snapped and rubbed a wide-palmed hand over his face. “Kivi - Kal and Keri need to learn more than just their craft. They have not yet started learning Khuzdul, they have not learned about their history - not just their personal history, but the history of our _people_ , of the North. They have never played with other dwarflings and they have never celebrated any of the great feasts!”

Kivi huffed, unable to think of anything to say - even something angry, or defensive, or mean - but her pride was deeply wounded by Jarvi’s blunt truth. She had made little effort to teach her niece and nephew the ways of their people; there was no way to deny that without making herself out to be a liar and a fool.

“What happened the other day with the bow has sat ill with me,” Jarvi was determined to speak his whole mind on the matter. “Kal should know better than to suggest that his sister has no right to put a hand to bow and arrow. But, he has grown up in the West, with Western Men, and I am much afraid that he has picked up their attitudes toward women. He would limit his sister, make fun of her, taunt her, dare her. These are not the actions of a respectful Son of Thulin.”

“You’ve dared and taunted me plenty, Jarvi,” Kivi scoffed haughtily, hands now fisted on her hips.

“Certainly,” Jarvi conceded with a casual roll of his shoulders. “But, never once have I, nor any other Son of Thulin, ever suggested to you that you are anything but capable of doing whatever it is you so desire.”

“Well...the same can be said of me to you,” Kivi insisted. “I’ve never told you what you can or cannot do.”

“Precisely,” Jarvi smacked his right fist into his left palm. “In the North, the only expectation we place upon each other is to _survive_ and to make certain that those around us _survive_ ,” the Umli grew more and more passionate with each word he uttered, his own blue eyes blazing. “And if the Harrowing had never happened, if Kal and Keri could have grown up as they were meant to, then there would be no questioning of her desire to seek the life of a soldier, or a _Vartija_ , or a hunter. Her brother would not mock her for wanting to aim an arrow as skillfully as a king.”

“I still don’t quite understand how she even knew anything about that,” Kivi tried to divert the conversation entirely.

“Etsijä and I took her to watch the archery tournament during the Spring Fest two moons ago. She was quite keen on King Kíli’s competition against Master Bard and the Elven lord, Legolas,” Jarvi entertained Kivi’s stalling tactic briefly. “Keri has always liked bows, _serrku_ \- you would know this, if you ever paid attention to the way she watches Etsijä when he practices. It was quite exciting for her to to watch another dwarf prove his mastery and skill at what she has always assumed to be a Man’s weapon.”

Kivi didn’t realize it, but she was beginning to worry her bottom lip between her teeth. She had dropped her gaze again, and Jarvi could finally see that he was finally starting to get through to her.

“Katrikki says that your soul may never truly heal from the Harrowing and from what Synkkä did to you,” Jarvi threw up a hand to stop Kivi, when she jerked her eyes defensively toward him and started to work the muscles in her jaw, as if to speak. “And I - all of us - are willing to accept that -”

“Accept _what_ , exactly?” Kivi did manage to cut in, her tone practically poisonous.

“That you may never wish to rule in Kivi Torni, or to truly wed, or to bear heirs,” Javi’s own voice softened in an attempt to soothe the harshness of his words. “But, if you would not wish those things for yourself, Kivi, then you must wish them for Keri and prepare her to take your mother’s crown. You must begin teaching Kal how to be the Elder Brother, to be his sister’s Voice to the greater world and her most trusted counselor in private.”

“I do not, nor will I _ever_ , wish those responsibilities on them,” Kivi responded stiffly in her attempt to not lose her temper; her knuckles grew white around the curve of her mug.

“And why not, _serrku_?” Jarvi asked gently, the answer already known between them.

“Because,” Kivi took a deep breath and squared her shoulders defiantly. “They should be free to chose their own fates.”

“So, you would accept the responsibilities of Kivi Torni?” Jarvi continued to press.

“I have no choice. Nor have I ever,” Kivi’s teeth were all but clenched together. “I was born to those duties. They are mine to bear and no one else’s.”

“Then bear them, _Päällikkö_ ,” her cousin stood abruptly and pressed his palms hard on top of the table; they stared each other down for several tense seconds. [“Chieftain”]

His words echoed the memory of her Twice-Naming and Kivi couldn’t suppress an involuntary shudder. Jarvi saw her eyes flicker and dim with the weight of her remembrance, and he shook his head with a heavy sigh.

“You have done nothing but run away from your responsibilities, _Äiti_ ,” his words were gentle, but firm. “And the severity of your denial is reflected in those two young dwarflings - your own kin, heirs themselves of Thulin’s throne,” he lifted one hand and pointed toward the little house’s open door, through which poured bright morning sunshine and cheerful birdsong. “They do not know how to carry themselves, proud in the knowledge of their history and heritage. They do not know the courtesies and etiquette of addressing other royalty - Keri should have known much better than to reveal King Kíli’s identity when he was without his crown,” Jarvi shook his head grimly, the ends of his thick mustache quivering with disapproval. “They know nothing of a world that is not ruled by Men and _common_ Men at that. And when they do have questions - which is becoming a daily occurrence, now that they live in the shadow of Erebor - they do not ask another dwarf. They do not ask _you_.”

Kivi blinked rapidly; the corners of her eyes suddenly stung with the warning heat of impending tears. Her jaw muscles popped once, twice, but she didn’t dare speak. She remained riveted to her spot across the table, her eyes narrowed bitterly at her cousin’s broad, handsome face.

“They ask me questions,” she finally rasped, when Jarvi stayed silent.

“You don’t answer them,” it was his turn to narrow his eyes; he looked as if he was reconsidering his approach, but then he heaved a great sigh and ran a hand across the top of his head. “Keri wants to know why you cry so much in the darkness; Kal wants to know who belongs to the names you cry out in your sleep. They ask me why you are always angry, they ask Seppä why you never take them to meet other dwarrow. They ask Katrikki why you never sing to them, or tell them stories, or teach them to use the runes.”

“I-” Kivi instinctively sought to defend herself, but she had nothing.

There was nothing that she could say; words faded away before her mind could even grasp them. She had never been cruel to her twin charges; she had never neglected them, had never hurt them, had never wavered in her quest to meet their every need. She had laughed with them, worried over them, chased after them, and taught them many things.

But, she had never taught them how to be _dwarves._ She could not deny that, even though innate self-preservation tried desperately to excuse her failures.

“They are growing up, Kivi. And I fear the day is not far off, when they will ask me why you hate the Khazâd – their own people, their very blood.”

She knew she didn’t want to hear the answer, but she couldn’t keep herself from asking anyway:

“And what would you tell them?”

Jarvi never broke eye contact; his deep voice reverberated through the neat and homey room.

“I would tell them that it is because you hate yourself.”

The following silence was deafening. Tears finally fell for good from Kivi’s eyes and her bosom - which she hadn’t yet bound for the day - heaved erratically as she tried to keep her composure.

“You speak cruelly, _serkku_ ,” she eventually whispered, her voice a ragged mockery of her normal, husky alto.

“I speak _truthfully_ ,” Jarvi clenched his jaw proudly, but his eyes were more compassionate than Kivi could bear.

She dropped her chin and closed her eyes, the honesty of her cousin almost too much for her to bear.

“I accept my responsibility to stand at your side, _Päällikkö_ ,” his voice was a soft caress over her wounded pride; Kivi flinched at the reminder of her true title and duty. “If you would not hand the crown of Thulin over to Keri, then I, as your last remaining male relative, must faithfully serve as Elder Brother. I am therefore bound by honor and oath to speak the truth to you, whether you wish to hear it or not.”

“You do not know what happened that day,” Kivi’s voice shook with the force of her tears; she continued to clench her eyes shut, not daring to see the look on Jarvi’s face as she made her awful confession. “You do not know what happened in _Äiti_ ’s tower.”

Jarvi said nothing, wisely waiting for Kivi to continue of her own free will. The words tumbled out of her, as if some nefarious hand had slipped a truth potion into her morning tea.

“ _I_ am the reason _Äiti_ is dead. I-I,” her shoulders rolled with the force of her sobs. “I distracted her, w-when she was fighting Synkkä’s youngest brother, R-Raaka. I-I called out t-to her a-and,” Kivi’s knees threatened to buckle, so she abruptly sat down on the stool right next to her. “H-he…” the word stuck in her throat, but after a quiet sob, it stumbled out. “H-he g-gutted h-her. A-and it’s a-all m-my f-fault.”

Jarvi had straightened to his full height - all five feet and five inches of it - and for a long moment, he stood on his side of the table and looked down at his weeping cousin with eyes wide in shock. But, Kivi seemed to have no intention of stopping, now that the silence had been broken; as she babbled through her tears, he moved quietly around the table toward her.

“A-and I had a c-chance t-to kill S-Synkkä,” Kivi squeaked through a woeful little hiccup. “M-Mahal g-gave m-me strength to...to pick up _Äiti_ ’s war m-mallet -”

Jarvi paused, his eyebrows rising up to all but disappear into his bushy hair line. The great War Mallet of Thulin - the _**Jäänmurtaja**_ , or “Ice Breaker” - was said to weigh as much as an adult male dwarf. It took considerable conditioning and training to wield the fearsome weapon of mithril, diamond, and petrified pine-wood. That a _dwarfling_ could even lift such a thing on her first attempt would certainly indicate the intercession of her Maker.

“I-I c-could h-have crushed h-his chest i-in, but...but…” Kivi dissolved into absolute grief and hid her face in her hands, irrationally humiliated by the ferocity of her tears.

Jarvi crouched down in front of her and thought about telling her that she didn’t need to continue. But, he stopped himself, just before the words could leave his mouth; Kivi had never spoken of what she had seen and Jarvi instinctively knew that she needed to hear the memory out loud, in her own voice.

“I-I saw Isä’s h-head t-tied to Synkkä’s b-belt b-by his h-hair,” Kivi’s words were muffled by her hands and Jarvi’s heart broke; he gently placed his hands on his cousin’s knees and bowed his head, unable to witness her sorrow any longer. “I-I w-was s-scared o-of h-him,” Kivi hiccuped a bit as she jerked beneath Jarvi’s hands; she grabbed a hold of his wrists, as if to ground herself. “I-I w-was a c-coward and e-everyone d-died b-because of m-me. Synkkä s-still r-rules Kivi T-Torni, b-because of m-me.”

Jarvi lifted his head and then his hands; he cupped Kivi’s tear-soaked chin and brushed his thumbs along the line of her jaw.

“Look at me, _Äiti_.”

Kivi tried to shake her head, but Jarvi held her firmly between his palms. Finally, reluctantly, Kivi opened her swollen eyes and met her cousin’s own tear-filled gaze.

“I am a c-coward, J-Jarvi,” her whisper was a broken confession.

“You are a _survivor_ ,” Jarvi replied firmly, quietly. “And you will be a _victor_ , yet.”

“I am afraid t-to f-face him,” Kivi couldn’t bear to look at Jarvi and squeezed her eyes shut again. “I am, after all th-these years, st-till afraid of S-Synkkä.”

“Do you think, one day, that you will choose to face him?” Jarvi moved one hand to grip her shoulder and one to cup the back of her head.

“I k-know one d-day that I _m-must_ ,” two more tears fell from beneath her long lashes.

“Will you fight him, when that day comes?” Jarvi pulled her head toward his, until their foreheads touched; this seemed to finally bring Kivi some comfort and she cautiously opened her eyes, although she wouldn’t yet meet his.

“I _m-must_ ,” Kivi repeated faintly. “It is n-not a matter of ch-choice.”

“Then, we will let that day come in its own time,” Javi rubbed the tip of his nose briefly against Kivi’s, in the manner that was not uncommon among kin of the North. “And in the days between, forgive yourself, Kivi. That will make you brave again.”

“And w-what if I c-can’t?” her voice was small, almost child-like, as she finally lifted her eyes.

Jarvi shook his scarlet head, mouth grim and eyes far too full of knowing.

“For the sake of yourself and for the sake of us all, _**tytär Thulin**_ , you _must_.” [“ _Daughter of Thulin_ ”]

 


	12. Yavanna's Tears

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Kíli meets an old friend...

“ _Her fate unknown, the Arkenstone  
What was stolen must be returned.”_

**"Song of the Lonely Mountain"**

**Neil Finn**

* * *

**Akhlathnurt (Akh) 'Afkalm 28th**

_(Tuesday April 27th)_

_**Erebor** _

* * *

 

Kíli had to practically dance down the sweeping flight of stairs that lead from the Royal Apartments in the upper part of Erebor's south-western spur, to the Great Hall of Thrór in the central half of the Mountain's iconic spire. The last bodies from the eastern interlock had been recovered from the ruins and buried, and the time for public mourning had been officially concluded. Practically overnight, the dwarrow kingdom had exploded in a whirl of frenetic energy, as the start of the much-loved **Gargbuzrâmrâg** , or Deep Ale Fest, was only four days away.

The young **Thane** had woken up to the thunder of hammers against anvils, echoing upward from the deepest levels of the Mountain. There was a steady cadence beneath the earth and stones, a rhythm that was as strong and as reliable as a heartbeat. The air circulating through the Mountain was warmer than usual; every available forge was lit and production was at its annual high. Stout bodies trotted swiftly about their business; nearly every dwarf that Kíli passed carried armfuls of this and that: baskets of dyed wool, trays of glittering gems, precariously balanced piles of polished weapons, and leather bags bursting with fresh produce. [“King”]

Kíli's silver-tipped boots flashed in the light of passing lamps, as he wove his way through the busy throng of kinsmen. From left, to right, to center, to right again; more than one set of eyes smiled fondly at the way their King's shoulder-length hair swayed about his face in time with his nimble to-and-fro. For his part, Kíli tried not to run into anyone, since courtesy demanded that all who passed him bow - even slightly - in recognition of his rank. That meant that there were a lot of sudden stops along his way and more than once he had to change his trajectory quite abruptly.

It was four days to the Deep Ale Fest, though, and Kíli didn't mind. His own heart seemed to beat in time with the hammers and picks, and for the first time since the death of his brother and uncle, he felt almost like his old self - playful, carefree, upbeat. It was hard to be glum, when the anticipation of a festival was stirring the whole kingdom into an industrial fervor. Kíli had not participated in any festival in the last year, except in a ceremonial capacity, and he had almost forgotten the fun to be had in simply mingling about in the general excitement of others.

He had not planned on participating in the Deep Ale Fest that year, but the tears he had shed with Dís had breached the walls of grief that he had built up around his heart. Sorrow, Kíli was beginning to slowly discover, was rather like a wound that festered beneath the skin - at some point, the swollen shield of flesh had to be lanced, so the sickness trapped beneath could bleed out. That did not remove the wound - that would still take time to scar over - but even the tiniest puncture was enough to open up the possibility of healing. Sadness still tempered the spring in Kíli's step, but he no longer felt like clinging to it so tightly that he could not welcome the opportunity to celebrate with his own people.

" _Thanu men_!" a deep-bellied voice shouted out from the scurry of dwarves behind him.

Kíli skidded to a stop, one boot planted firmly on one step, the other on the one below it. Beads, braids, and freshly-washed hair flew across his face as he threw a hasty glance over his shoulders.

"Glóin!" Kíli grabbed a hold of the gold railing behind him as he leaned back a bit to allow a particularly buxom dwarrow-dam to pass with her equally bountiful basket of folded, brightly-colored linens. " **Vem**!" [ _"Greetings!"_ ]

Thankfully, the two dwarves were just a couple steps from a spacious junction, where the stairs intersected with a broad, black marble road that lead deeper into the spire toward the Throne Room. Glóin trotted down past his King and then stopped when he was at an appropriate level, his own boots firmly planted on the stone two steps below Kíli's own. The warrior's armored width encouraged the flow of traffic to move around him and Kíli was able to stand against the railing without worrying about an accidental push over the side from an over-enthusiastic basket.

"I've been trying to catch up to you for two flights, already," Glóin pressed a meaty hand to his plated rib cage and panted heavily for a breath or two. "I forget how quickly you young ones move."

"Well, we have to make our elders earn their keep somehow," Kíli's face abruptly brightened in a genuine smile of pleasure; Glóin blinked in surprise and for half a second, Kíli thought that he saw a strange shimmer of moisture in the older dwarf's faded brown eyes.

"Bah!" Glóin huffed and waved a hand dismissively as a matching smile of his own spread across his brightly-bearded face. "If that's the case, then I have earned my keep two times over, for all the running I've done after my own lad. Never mind you, your Highness."

"Truth," Kíli was feeling playful and couldn't resist the urge to tease an old friend. "But, I _pay_ you to run after me, Master Glóin."

"Hah," Glóin barked shortly, his mustache quivering with a lively smile. "That might be so, Thanu men, but do pay heed, or you'll be payin' Óin to look after my heart!"

Kíli laughed - it was a soft sound, not as full-bodied as it once was, but it was a true, genuine expression of mirth. A white edge of teeth peeked through slightly parted lips, as his mouth curled upward in a lopsided grin. He had almost forgotten how good it was to feel like a man alive.

"So, what sends you huffing and puffing after me on such a crowded morning?" the King's dark eyes briefly drifted over the noise and bustle that flowed around them. "I would think it's far too early for my Guard to be hailing me down," another flash of white teeth. "I've only just eaten my breakfast."

"You would have to eat your breakfast much earlier, it would seem, to get ahead of your mother," Glóin chuckled at the way Kíli's eyebrows rose up toward his hairline. "She sent me to tell you that she has already greeted the merchants that you requested and has escorted them to the Thane's Atelier to await your presence."

"Ah,” Kíli reached up and scrubbed his fingers against the line of his jaw; he titled his head back and looked over his shoulder again to peer at the way he had just come. "She did mention that she might do that - said she might know one or two of the jewelers and wished to greet them."

Glóin just grunted in reply - he had thought it a bit peculiar that the Princess would intercept her son in such a manner, but Kíli did not seem at all concerned by it. Although, he did seem to mind the prospect of diving back into the fray; the young King eyed the stairs above them with a bemused tilt of his lips.

"I'll walk with you, Your Majesty," the Captain of Erebor's Guard (to be distinguished from Dwalin, who was Captain of the Royal Guard) gestured grandly toward the upward climb behind Kíli with a flourish of his gloved hand. "You shouldn't be walkin' 'round on your own, anyways. Dwalin would have a fit."

Kíli's response to this gentle admonishment was an exasperated roll of his eyes. He did not want a retinue and had done everything in his power to actively avoid a constant guard (despite Balin's and Dwalin's best efforts). Being followed continuously tended to give him a feeling of entrapment, which chafed sorely at his free spirit. Today was a rare morning, indeed, when he opened his door to find the corridor beyond conspicuously Dwalin-free. Kíli had been enjoying the chance to jog down the stairs of his kingdom without his self-appointed body-guard rattling around behind him.

But, he didn't want to keep his guests waiting and Glóin was stout enough to clear the way ahead of his king without concern for any particular challenge. As much fun as weaving his way through the crowd of industrious dwarrow had been so far, it was rather un-kingly of him. And...despite Kíli's reluctance, he was trying to put forth a better effort in acting in a manner more consistent with what was expected of him.

So, he scratched his growing beard (which was still largely unchanged to any eye other than his own) and stifled a sigh. Glóin had a fair point; no doubt; enough tongues would wag at the end of the day, about their undignified king and his solo descent from the Royal Quarters. He didn't need to provide the Erebor rumor mill with more fodder than he already had.

"Lead the way, Captain," Kíli bowed his head respectfully to his elder and Glóin rewarded him with an approving tilt of the head.

"Make way for the King!" Glóin then shouldered his way past Kíli and bellowed as loudly as he could over the surrounding din of moving bodies.

The crowd of dwarrow parted immediately and heads bowed respectfully as Kíli passed them by. The crown of Erebor gleamed across his brow and even though the sudden cessation of movement around him still made him uncomfortable, Kíli was able to appreciate the power he now commanded. Going back the way he came was much quicker (although, admittedly, a lot less fun), with Glóin so enthusiastically announcing his ascent. For the first time since his coronation, however, Kíli did not hear the mutter of voices following behind him like a noxious portent of doom. There was silence as he passed and the chatter that resumed behind his back was full of cheer and words of work. Words that had nothing to do with him, his appearance, or the nature of his ruling.

So, it was in high spirits that Kíli left Glóin at the door of their destination and stepped through an austere wrought-iron archway that lead into a multi-chambered work-room. The Thane's Atelier was located in the several-mile-long level that ran along the upper-most part of the southwestern spur, above the Royal Apartments. The Halls of Light, as the level was known, housed the King's private library, his sprawling Atelier, the Queen's sitting rooms, the Queen's own personal work spaces, the King's study, a number of smaller rooms meant for tutors and children, and finally, a nursery. Every room, every few feet of corridor, had skylights of reinforced crystal panes that could bear the weight of winter snows and yet were thin enough welcome in an abundance of sunlight in any other season. The gray granite of Erebor was laid over with white jade tiles, and glistening patterns of alternating gold and silver. Every room was decorated in the palest shades of favored colors - aquamarine, opal, peridot, citrine, and topaz.

The Thane's Atelier - which now belonged solely to Kíli, as King Under the Mountain - was not quite as bright as the other rooms on the level. The floor was nothing more than the simple granite of Erebor itself and the same for the walls. There were five chambers total, each devoted to a particular craft - one for woodworking, one for tanning, one for jewelry-making, one for metal-smithing, and the last was a sunless forge. The ceilings in each room were high and vaulted; all but the forge had skylights, and the jeweler's room had a floor-to-ceiling window along the length of the whole chamber. Wrought iron and silver accents decorated each arched doorway, and runes of blessing and inspiration graced the walls in geometric patterns.

Kíli went only as far as the jeweler's room, since he had little interest in the forge or the metal-smithing chamber. While he was certainly adept at the more "traditional" crafts of his royal forefathers, the young dwarf had always had a particular gift for finer workings. He had long excelled at all aspects of jewelry-making - from selecting stones, to cutting and polishing them, to setting them into intricate wrappings of silver, gold, copper, and bronze. He was also drawn to the feel of wood beneath his calloused fingers; he had, in his time, crafted a number of fine pieces, to include the matching fiddles that he and Fíli had shared. He did fine leather-work on occasion, too; he had made his own distinctive bracers and cleverly-designed archer's gloves, along with Fíli's massive belt and numerous scabbards.

Unlike most of his kin, Kíli enjoyed the feel of delicate things beneath the strength of his hands. The textures of wood, bone, leather, and jewel had fascinated him for as long as he could remember. Dís had once, so very long ago, remarked that Kíli held that particular trait in common with his father. Ríkin had been a wealthy, well-traveled merchant in his own youth, and in the course of his travels, had developed a certain fondness for more "unconventional" treasures that were not born of the mountains' mighty bones. Once, and only once, on the day that Kíli finally came of age, Dís had brought out a curiously carved scrimshaw box, in which lay a collection of Ríkin's favorite hair-beads and aglets. Only a few of them, heirlooms mostly, were made of silver, gold, or delicately fashioned iron; the rest Ríkin had crafted out of odds and ends that he had found throughout his travels. There were beads of strangely carven bones; aglets of rare woods; long cords of supple sinew tipped in stiff, exotic feathers; claps of polished tusk and painted shell.

Kíli had chosen a single aglet from among the eclectic array - it was the only one of its kind in the whole of the box, made from what Dís had called "Yavanna's Tear". It was the warm, golden brown of a well-aged brandy and when held against the light, it seemed to glow with the rich, earthy hue of a fabled fire moon. There were tiny impurities within the stone, though, which would have caused any dwarven jeweler worth his craft to discard the stone as an inferior. But, the light had reflected through those darker-colored bubbles, as if they were tears suspended for eternity within a frozen blaze. Kíli had been utterly enchanted by the gem and Dís had explained, through a rather watery smile, that that very same aglet had been Ríkin's favored piece.

Kíli wore it now, to bind the ends of his King's Braid. He had chosen it that morning, after scrounging around in his own bead box of smoothly carved cherry. One of Katrikki's Northern stories, recorded with Ori's characteristic detail, had rekindled the memory of his father's aglet while Kíli had been fighting to tame his bed-mussed hair. That same story had ignited Kíli's creativity, which had lain dormant for far too long during the course of his grieving. Fishing the aglet out of its hideaway and admiring it anew in the light of the early morning sun had set in Kíli's mind the task which he now vowed to complete before the start of the Deep Ale Fest.

Before he could consider how he would craft his Gargbuzrâmrâg masterpiece, however, there was the matter of his visitors to consider first. There were two of them, their backs to the entrance of the jeweler's room, as they faced the Princess. They were clearly dwarrowdams, both of them, if the long linen skirts that they wore were any indication. All three ‘dams had their heads bent over the long, simply crafted mahogany table that stretched the whole length of the enormous window. Dís straightened up as her son walked through the iron archway, but it was sheer coincidence. She didn’t see him enter, as she was holding an expertly cut, midnight-blue sapphire up against the cheerful stream of sunlight.

“Such exquisite craftsmanship, Nali,” Dís praised the red-headed merchant to her left, who bobbed her head in demure acceptance.

“ **Âkminrûk zu, Ezbadu men** ,” Nali replied, her voice as soft and sweet as Kíli remembered. “But, the craftsmanship belongs entirely to An. I am but the silver tongue that persuades the purse strings to open.” [ _“Thank you, My High Lady.”_ ]

"Very well," Dís turned her brilliant smile toward Nali's companion, who stood to the Princess' right and could barely be seen around the buxom girth of the other two 'dams. "Your skill is impressive, Mistress An - these gems could all very well rival the rare treasures I've seen shaped by Blacklock hands."

Nali laughed, then, and the sound of it warmed Kíli's very soul. That same soft, delicate laugh had often been directed at him in his youth, when Nali had taught him the arts of courtship and bed-play. The sound of her mirth still brought a sheepish, almost shy half-smile to his face and Kíli hung back near the darker doorway until he could reign in the boyish memories of his unexpected visitor.

"I should well hope so, _Ezbadu men_ ," Nali placed her hands on her hips and the young king couldn't help notice that they were wider, curvier than the last time he had seen them so framed between her fingers. "An _is_ a Blacklock."

"Oh!" Dís turned to her right with no small amount of surprise. "What a rare honor! Welcome to Erebor and the lands of the Longbeards, my kin."

Kíli could just make out a wimple-covered head bob up and down in a courtly courtesy. To his surprise - and to his mother's - it was Nali who answered.

"My apologies, ma'am, but An is bound to a **geis** of silence, I will speak for her, if you wish."

"Of course," if the Princess was startled to hear this unusual declaration, she was graceful enough not to show it.

Instead, she reverently placed the sapphire in her hand back in the velvet-lined display case laying open on the table in front of her and then turned fully toward the Blacklock merchant. To the King’s amazement, Dís now curtsied to An - on later reflection, however, Kíli realized that perhaps he shouldn’t have been so shocked. A geis was a rare and sacred oath, that forged the supplicant to the Maker through holy, ancient rites. An was more than just a simple Blacklock merchant and jeweler - her silence, her geis, marked her as a supplicant of Mahal, worthy of even a King’s highest respect.

“You honor us beyond measure, Mistress. It has been many countless seasons since one of Mahal’s Sworn has walked among the folk of Durin, **Úri** , and **Linnar**.”

Kíli could see An’s face briefly, as his mother dipped low to show the depth of her regard; the Blacklock’s dark eyes were wide. Clearly, she had not expected such a display of deference to Nali’s revelation. But, despite her sudden expression of confusion, An tentatively reached out and gently - briefly - touched Dís’s shoulders in a silent request to stand tall once again.

"I can assure you, Your Highness, that An is quite honored to be invited into the Kingdom Under the Mountain, as am I,” Nali paused, as An and Dís regarded each other curiously for a long moment; the merchant finally seemed to pick up on her companion’s uncertainty and smoothly moved the Princess’ attention back to the subject at hand. “We both hope that our wares will meet the King's expectations."

Nali reached out to open another case and Kíli decided that it was finally time for him to announce his presence.

"I am certain that they will," he stepped forward confidently, as if he _hadn't_ been eavesdropping on the side, and held his hands out to Nali in a warm welcome.

"Your Majesty," the Firebeard 'dam turned and curtsied in a fluid, well-practiced motion, before reaching out (with just the slightest hesitation) and taking Kíli's offered hands between her own.

Dancing hazel eyes traveled down the length of Kíli's frame and then up again; her eyelashes fluttered coyly as they both considered each other after so many years apart. For his part, Kíli couldn't help a proud swell of his chest, as approval flashed through his former lover's eyes.

"King of the Silver Fountains," a sort of wistful sigh tinged the inflection of Nali's fond praise. "You've grown into the perfect picture of your titles, sire."

"You have ever been the flatterer," Kíli couldn't help a quick, cheeky grin as he lifted Nali's right hand to his lips.

"Ahh," Nali tilted her head and the apples of her pleasantly rounded cheeks flushed ever so slightly as the softness of Kíli's lips tangled with the gentle scrape of his beard against the back of her hand. "But, my flattery has never been false, Thanu men."

Kíli’s hair replaced his lips as he lifted his head; for a moment, the two smiled at each other and then the King gently let go of Nali’s strong, yet tender, hands. Memories hung unspoken in the air between them, but the lingering gaze they gave each other before moving apart acknowledged the history that they had shared. There was some relief on Kíli’s part, to realize that he no longer desired Nali as he had as a young lad of 60 or so. But, there had been much warmth, laughter, and tenderness shared between teacher and student in the past, and Kíli found that he still loved Nali as much as he ever had. The sight of her ruddy complexion, smiling eyes, and welcoming gaze brought him almost as much joy as welcoming his mother to Erebor had.

“When Lord Dáin said that he had gem merchants in his company from the Iron Hills, I never imagined that it would be you,” the young King stepped toward his mother and the velvet boxes on the mahogany table; he flashed a smile at Nali as he passed beside her.

“It was a lucky happenstance, truly,” Nali explained brightly as she turned with her King. “An and I were returning from our travels in the East and had stopped by **Zirinhanâd** , when Lord Dain announced that he was bringing aid to the Mountain. I simply couldn’t resist the possibility of finding a profit among a great city in the midst of rebuilding itself,” the merchant’s full lips curled up in a playful smile. “And I suppose if I am to be honest, I had rather hoped to see what time had made of our new King.” [ _The Iron Hills_ ]

“Please, permit me more time before making any judgments,” Kíli couldn’t help a cynical snort, as he slid a sideways glance toward Nali. “I’m sure you can remember what a fool I can be at the beginning of any enterprise that might require some level of maturity.”

Laughter filled the air as Nali responded to Kíli’s sly reference to the hesitant, wide-eyed, finger-fumbling youth he’d been when first brought to his lover’s bed. Awed by the tumble of wild red hair and naked, freckled skin, he had thoroughly lacked any of his usual self-confidence. As he grew older, he would often recall that first year or so with Nali with no small amount of chagrin - he’d been too quick, too shy, too eager, too selfish, too awkward. If one had listened to Fili tell of his experiences with his own courtesan, the heir apparent was a “natural” - suave, sincere, generous, and thoughtful. Not so, his little brother. Kíli had often marveled at the patience with which Nali had instructed him - even after seven years of learning how to woo and love a woman, the youngest son of Durin’s throne still had the propensity to let his impulses lead the way, instead of letting the heart unfurl as it would.

“Time, _Thanu men_ , will remember you as fondly as I do myself,” her smile gave him hope, as it always had. “You need only choose your companions and councils wisely.”

“And is that the real reason why my mother invited you into the Mountain, over and above our own jewelers?” Kíli was tall enough to look easily over Nali’s head and eye Dís with an arched eyebrow. “To ‘counsel’ me yet again?”

Nali laughed, yet again, her mirth and effervescent delight in life never far from her lips. Dís pressed her own lips together and tossed her head with an indignant sniff.

“Nonsense.”

Kíli narrowed his eyes playfully at her - he knew better. Nali was too dear and too influential a figure from his past for the Princess to invite into the Mountain with only innocent intent. The young dwarf had once learned to please a woman, through the guidance of Nali’s lush and eager body; with Fili gone to the Halls of Waiting, there was no other dwarf who knew the King Under the Mountain as intimately as the bright-haired Firebeard beside him. He would not put it past Dís to have invited the former courtesan into the Royal Quarter with the express intent of asking for her help in selecting a Queen.

An, who could hear as well as anyone else in the room, seemed rather uncomfortable by the turn of events and had grabbed one of the display trays from off of the table. As a stubborn lull fell between Dís and Kíli, the small Blacklock jeweler abruptly thrust the box of polished gems in the space between mother and son. Nali clapped her hands and deftly positioned herself into the space as well, her back to the table and her face toward Kíli.

“Now, I will readily admit that I am more than happy to counsel you about this fine array of gems,” Nali winked approvingly at An, as she took the box from her business partner and opened the lid. “We have an exotic variety, if I may say so myself, and we’ve divided them by color. Here you have a lovely selection of diamonds, pearls, opals, and moonstone.”

Kíli allowed himself to be distracted - after all, even if Dís had ulterior motives, the primary reason for Nali’s presence was to sell him jewels for his annual creation. His dark eyes finally dropped away from his mother’s matching gaze and he considered the sparkling display of white jewels that winked up at him from black velvet depths. He reached up and rubbed his chin thoughtfully, as he turned over the details of Katrikki’s tale. Finally, Kíli lifted his eyes up toward Nali and shook his head.

“I would prefer to be very particular about the gems I choose today,” without even thinking, his fingers drifted toward his King’s Braid and the amber aglet clasped to the end of it. “You say you have an ‘exotic’ selection?”

“We do,” Nali hid her face as she glanced down; she carefully closed the display case in her hands and handed it back to her Blacklock companion. “An and I have traveled much of the East and South of our Middle Earth. There are rare gems in Rhûn and in Khand, where we have primarily wandered. What do you have in mind, sire?”

“Do you have any of Yavanna’s Tears?” Kíli didn’t miss the way his mother’s breath hitched when she saw what he had chosen to wear in his hair that day; he continued to fiddle his father’s aglet between forefinger and thumb.

“Amber?” Nali lifted her eyes and her crimson eyebrows. “That is a greatly treasured stone of the North – in Angmar and the Forodwaith. Before today, An and I had not traveled any further north than the Iron Hills,” the Firebeard merchant rocked gently back on her heels and pursed her lips; her green-blue eyes drifted past Kíli to the display boxes arranged behind them in the near-summer sun. “But, I _have_ collected some choice pieces from other merchants along the way.”

She turned her gaze back to Kíli and nibbled her lip for a second or two as she considered her next words. The King’s own eyes dropped toward the familiar curve of her mouth and his own tingled with the memory of her tongue against his. How very long it had been since he had kissed a woman, dwarf or otherwise…

He realized,with a bit of a jolt, that he rather missed it - kissing, and courting, and the fiery yearning of passion. Although, he did not miss it enough to pursue it again any time soon. The shape of Tauriel’s lips was still in his mind, as well as the pang of accepting that he would never know what she tasted like, or how her delicate Elvish skin would feel against his tongue.

“We have only raw amber - it is not a stone of much worth among most dwarrow jewelers,” Nali had continued with her deliberation and Kíli’s mind scrambled immediately to catch up, as he dragged his eyes away from her mouth. “Even An has little use for it, and there is barely a stone we have gathered that _hasn’t_ been smoothed and polished by her hand.”

“I understand,” Kíli waved a dismissive hand - the Ice Elf’s tale had been quite specific. “Let me see what you have.”

“As you wish, sire,” Nali’s expression smoothed to one of neutral professionalism, although Kíli knew her well enough to recognize the curiosity that creased the furrows of her high, smooth forehead ever so slightly. “An?”

Nali had barely turned around, before An passed her the appropriate velvet box. Without any further hesitation, Nali opened it and presented it for Kíli’s inspection. His King’s Braid swung gently over the collection of stones, the tawny aglet flashing like liquid gold in the air between the tightly gathered quartet of dwarves.

The contents of Nali’s box was rather uninspiring at first glance - it contained naught but a jumble of rough stones that looked not so very different from ordinary pebbles washed up at the edge of a stream. There were, however, subtle hues of saffron, umber, and vermilion in each indescript rock that hinted at the brilliance of color beneath the unremarkable exterior. Kíli carefully reached out and picked up one particularly large stone, that looked as if it had been already been cut open. When he turned it over to lay in the center of his palm, he saw that it had indeed been partially exposed to a jeweler’s scrutiny. The King of Erebor pinched the stone between thumb and forefinger, as he lifted his hand up toward the light above his head.

Fire burst to life within the dull piece of petrified resin; shades of gold, auburn, ochre, and cinnamon danced together in the sunlight as if alive. His eyes grew wide at the remarkable transformation and suddenly, the premise of Katrikki’s folk tale did not seem so far-fetched.

“How have we overlooked a stone that carries within it the very fires of Mahal?” he marveled softly, mostly to himself.

Nali answered anyway.

“Because it is not from the bones of the earth,” she shrugged and tilted her head prettily to the side; even she looked impressed by the fierce brilliance of an otherwise unremarkable stone. “Amber is hardened resin - a gem born of trees, not fire. They are the sacred treasure of Yavanna - some tales will say they are Her tears, shed for every tree that Man has felled. Others will say that amber is formed when the sap - the blood, if you will - of trees is spilled and hardened by its contact with the world, so that the tree from whence it came will never be forgotten. The Elves say that amber is the memory of a living thing and that it will only shine in the light of the sun that nurtured it. In the North, it is greatly desired as a token of love, devotion, and sacrifice - it is often given as a courting gift, since it is believed that it holds within itself the spark of life, of fire, which perhaps means much more in the Frozen Wastes than anywhere else within this world.”

“It is mostly, however, considered an Elven stone,” Dís added softly; Kíli glanced over at her and saw that her eyes lingered lovingly on the aglet that now brushed against the side of his throat. “Although, it is typically treasured only among the Silvan folk.”

“Not entirely,” Nali’s eyes had followed where Dís’ had lead and now both ‘dams were considering the muscular curve of their King’s neck and the long, dark-brown braid that lay against it. “It is sacred to the half-dwarves of the Forodwaith, is it not?”

For a long moment, Dís said nothing. Eyes riveted to the end of Kíli’s braid, she reached out between them and gently smoothed the tips of her fingertips against Ríkin’s aglet. Her face - surprisingly smooth, despite her age and sorrows - was pleasant and neutral, but Kíli could see the storm of memories flash through her rich, chestnut-colored eyes. He knew that she was thinking of his father, as she turned her hand and tenderly brushed her knuckles over his braid and the thickening scruff along the line of his jaw.

In ordinary circumstances, Kíli would have been uncomfortable with such intimate contact - now that he wore the Crown of Erebor, such contact was forbidden by any except his closest family. But, his mother’s fingers had combed through his growing hair the whole of his life and he turned his face ever so slightly to affectionately nuzzle the hand that had raised him. And, now that he was King, he would have shied from revealing the depth of his emotions to an audience, but An could not currently see around the breadth of Dís’s back and Nali had her eyes respectfully lowered.

“Aye, that it is,” Dís’ hand finally fell away from her son’s face and she couldn’t quite stifle a heavy sigh. “Your aglet, _Thanu men_ , was a gift given to your father by a half-dwarf of the North,” Dís’ smile grew wider and her eyes crinkled in genuine mirth. “Ríkin was sometimes wont to exaggeration when he told his tales of a merchant’s life, but,” a soft laugh fell from Dís’ lips and she shook her head again. “He always claimed that this very aglet had been blessed, so that it could help Ríkin find his One.”

“And did it?” Kíli grinned, knowing well the answer, even though he had never heard this story before.

“I had never seen amber,” Dís’ whole demeanor lit up with the joy of memory and she gently took a hold of her son’s braid for a second time. “And when I first met Ríkin in the Great Market of Ered Luin, I could not help but ask to touch it. He asked to court me that very same day; your grandfather used to say that the only reason he ever allowed your father to sweep me off my feet was because one could not win against a dwarf that was so undaunted by crowns and royal titles.”

“No wonder Uncle always called Father a ‘rapscallion’,” Kíli wiggled his thick eyebrows playfully and even Nali, who was still demurely gazing at the floor, couldn’t help a snort of laughter.

“Oh, Thorin was _horrid_ to Ríkin at first. Said the only reason he didn’t chop your Father’s hands off was because I touched him first.”

For a moment, Kíli could see the winsome maid his mother had once been, as she giggled over the memory of her eldest brother’s hot-headed threats. The room grew brighter, it seemed, the sun itself basking in the rare beauty of her delight. He stuck his thumbs in his broad leather belt and rocked back on his heels, pleased with the pleasant pace at which the day was unfolding.

Something occurred to him, though, and the young King’s brows knitted briefly below the golden edge of his crown.

“Wait...Father traveled to the North?”

“To the fabled city of Kivi-Torni itself,” Dís confirmed. “He is one of the very few dwarves of the West to ever enter those great halls of stone and marble.”

“You never told me,” Kíli’s frown deepened - more from confusion, however, than anger.

“That is because your father never spoke much of it to even me,” the Princess finally turned away from her son and moved her gaze toward the brilliantly lit window behind them. “He traveled there before ever meeting me and when he spoke of it, it was only to tell of how he was given his prized aglet,” the profile of her proud face darkened briefly with a frown of her own. “Ríkin said the North was a place of secrets and the Stiffbeards solemn keepers of them.”

“Silence seems to be a Stiffbeard trait,” Kíli grumbled as his thoughts veered unwillingly toward a certain surly, flame-haired, Northern dwarrow-dam who had come to vex him so.

“I have heard among my own travels, amid the Stonefoots and the Blacklocks, that the Stiffbeards value the privacy of their kingdom above all else. They keep their secrets in the hope of keeping their way of life,” Nali finally entered the conversation, her voice just barely above a whisper. “Tragedy and exile have plagued our kin to the East far more than it has ever plagued us - the history of this very mountain and Khazad-dûm notwithstanding. The Stiffbeards are the only dwarrow House in the East to remain whole and unbroken through the ages. Much of that, I have been told, is because they keep their silence, amid their snow and ice. No one knows much about them, not even those of the Khazad who live closest to their borders.”

“I imagine that much of that has to do with the very clime in which they live in,” Dís softened the sobriety of the moment with a smile and a surprising wink tossed in Kíli’s direction. “Your father was quite vocal about one thing, for certain: he _never_ wanted to see another Forodwaith winter for as long as he lived!”

 


	13. Jewels of Blood and Tears

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a legend of the North is told...

“ _Some folk we never forget  
Some kind we never forgive.”_

“ **Song of the Lonely Mountain”**

**Neil Finn**

* * *

**Akhlathnurt (Akh) 'Afkalm 28th**

_(Tuesday April 27th)_

_**Erebor** _

* * *

 

 

It was another hour, at least, before Kíli’s selections had been made and Dís took her leave of the Thane’s Atelier. Upon the King’s request, Nali and An remained with him in the warm, sunlit jeweler’s chamber; originally, he had asked only for Nali to stay behind, but his mother had gently reminded him that as an unwed Thane, he could not be found keeping private company with a woman.

Especially not with one who had Kept Company with him as a Royal Courtesan, never mind how many years had passed since then, or how many rules restricted the ancient custom. Kíli was frankly surprised Dís allowed him to keep company with _two_ dwarrowdams in the same room with him, but apparently the mores and morals of one of Mahal’s Sworn was above any possible reproach. Plus, Glóin had obligingly moved from his position outside the Atelier’s iron doorway and now stood inside, just on the other side of the jeweler’s chamber’s open archway. If anyone wished to whisper, they would have to contend with the honor of a Sworn and the sharp blade of a Captain’s ax.

For now, Kíli’s honor was safe and sound. He allowed himself an over-exaggerated roll of the eyes at the thought, but bit his tongue and obeyed the customs expected of his rank. Dwarrow, as a whole, were by no means prudes - unlike Elves, for example, they reveled in the earthy delights of the bodies Mahal had made for them. And, as with anything a dwarf undertook, bed play was an art which was heartily pursued to whatever an individual and his One could consider “perfect”. Tales whispered from behind smooth virgin hands, of lusty smiths and virile lovers with more stamina and singular devotion than any one being could possibly handle, were not much exaggerated from their original sources.

So, it was not without reason that certain courtesies were put into place, particularly in regards to dwarrow-dams. 'Dams were scarce enough among the Khazad to be as highly valued as any mithril vein - indeed, it was expected of a man, blessed enough to woo a wife, to treasure her as highly as he would a gift from the Maker’s hand Himself. But, there were practical things to consider as well - such as lineages and a dwarf’s natural tendency toward possessiveness. Dwarrow had learned long ago, well before the conclusion of the First Age, that they had enough woes to contend with, without adding bastard babes and jealous rages to the mix.

The solution that was devised was that of Keeping Company. Dwarrow-dams were considered - and, with rare exceptions – treated as blessings from Mahal. It was only right and honorable, then, for a man to protect her, defend her, honor her, and please her. As a whole, the idea of “pleasing” a 'dam was merely a polite turn of phrase for satisfying her desires within the marriage bed. Promiscuity, however, was not at all practical within the realities of dwarrow culture; indeed, “loose” behavior was severe enough of an affront to warrant exile in extreme cases. Adultery was punishable by death, although that particularly Draconian custom had mellowed out over the ages to mere exile and the expungement of one’s name from the Records.

So, how then, to teach a dwarrow man how to please his wife and to teach her about the delights of her body? The development of another custom aided with that - by the end of the First Age, dwarrow were well known for their total devotion to One. If his or her One died, then the widowed did not marry ever again. “One” meant, quite literally, “One” for life.

Dwarves were, though, sensuous, affectionate beings at their deepest core. So, a balance was struck between two needs - if one was widowed at a young age, then he or she had the option of Keeping Company with an unmarried, un-betrothed dwarf who had come of age, for a span of time up to (but never more than) seven years. During that time, older and younger dwarf could Keep Company - another polite euphemism for a sexual relationship outside the bounds of marriage or betrothal. The elder was the teacher, the younger the student and in its own way, was often viewed as a kind of apprenticeship. There were strict customs that regulated the Keeping of Company - for example, the only ratio ever permissible was one teacher to one student. Teachers could not Keep Company with siblings (for example, Kíli and Fíli Kept Company with different ‘dams) and when a period of seven years was up, teachers were expected to gently sever ties with their student. It was then, after the period of Keeping Company, that a dwarf was considered eligible for betrothal.

There were variations of the custom from House to House - for example, among the Longbeards, dwarrow-maids were expected to remain innocent until their betrothal, when it was their Promised One’s duty to teach them as they had been taught. Among the Broadbeams, it didn’t matter – both dwarrow-maids and lads were expected to Keep Company and to meet each other as equals in the marriage bed. And among the Firebeards, physical intimacy was not permitted by a dwarrow-maid until the night of her wedding (in the rare event that a betrothal not work out and a lass was left to carry the child of a man who wasn’t truly her One).

The rules worked more or less the same for the royal lines of each House, although, of course, there were yet more policies and procedures when a crown was involved. Among the Longbeards, a prince Kept Company with a Courtesan - which was, in itself, a much-respected position that carried with it considerable responsibility to clan and crown. And, of course, princes were watched much more closely after their period of Keeping Company, to make sure that a passing lover (a possibility that dwarrow were too shrewd to dismiss) didn’t suddenly complicate the succession to the thrones of Durin or his brothers.

And so, it was thanks to the complicated sexual customs of his kin, that Kíli had to share Nali’s company with a ‘dam he’d never met. It was, to say the least, a bit awkward - although, admittedly, An was so small and unassuming, that it was actually more embarrassing to have Glóin humming quietly in the background as a constant reminder that complete decorum had better be observed.

Not that Kíli had the desire for anything even remotely questionable. Nearly twelve years had past since he had last seen Nali and under the watchful eye of Thorin and Fíli, Kíli had gotten quite used to his (admittedly reluctant) celibacy. Oh, in that time he had certainly perfected the art of flirting with a woman and there had been more than a few times when his nimble fingers had found their way beneath corset or skirt, to send a maid (and often himself) to bed longing for more. And perhaps there had been that one or two (or three or five) times Fíli had been forced to drag his little brother out of a warm bed, before some furious father could insist on an arranged marriage for “selfishly trying to claim what wasn’t his to have.”

And then, Kíli had stumbled into Rivendell and discovered _Elves_. While he would certainly have never admitted such to Tauriel, it wasn’t so much the fact that she was an Elf that had enraptured him. Quite honestly, the “Elf” part of the equation Kíli would have rather avoided. But, it was the smooth, creamy skin...the willowy waist...the beardless cheeks....the sleek, straight hair....the high cheekbones...the slender limbs… And, perhaps more than anything else, it was the ephemeral majesty of Tauriel’s bearing and the fluid grace of her body, even in the bloody chaos of battle. It was the dream of her walking in starlight, the vision of her blazing like purest mithril in the darkness of the Morgul venom.

And it was the dream of her, the hope of holding something so pure and precious against the sturdy simplicity of his earth-forged body, that still turned his eye away from dwarrow-dams. Once, Kíli had thought Nali among the most beautiful women of Middle Earth, with her wild, curly hair, with her slender, beaded braids that gently framed the curve of her jaw from ear to chin, with her full breasts that had defied containment, even when cupped in his broad hands. But now, he saw the weathered tan of her skin, the shortness of her stature next to him, and the thick muscle of her body that solidly grounded the grace she did indeed possess.

Ephemeral, Nali was _not_ , nor could Kíli imagine her walking in any light other than that of fire and forge. Nor, could Kíli imagine such things about _any_ dwarrow-dam he had met since watching Tauriel shine with the power of her immortal magic.

So, the Erebor rumor mill had nothing to distort - except the perceived inappropriateness of a former Consort sitting amiably with her King in the solitude of his personal working chambers. Sometimes - and this was one of those times - Kíli thought that particular customs of his own kin were as silly as those of Elves.

There was, however, nothing he could do about such customs, except to uphold them and respect them. Which was how poor An and Glóin reluctantly found themselves listening to an alarmingly eyebrow-raising tale of forbidden love.

It began when Nali stood next to Kíli and, upon his invitation, started helping him sort through the gems now spread out across the span of his work-table. He had chosen a number of amber stones, of varying sizes, and a sizable collection of red diamonds.

Next to the fabled Simarils, red diamonds were the rarest of stones in Middle Earth. As with amber, there were many great tales woven around the origins of the exquisite gems. Among the Khazad, the story was that red diamonds were drops of Mahal’s blood, scattered about the earth from when the Seven Fathers were made. For, as every dwarven smith knew, no craft was ever complete until the maker had spilled blood and sweat - only then, could one claim to have given his all to the magic of creation.

A curious thing, her one time student was crafting, Nali could not help but muse, as she watched his dark head bend low over the choices scattered before them. It was considered the very height of impropriety to ask a dwarf what he or she was making in honor of the Deep Ale Fest, but Nali found that she simply couldn’t hold her tongue. She bent her bright head down next to Kíli so that only he could hear her daring whisper:

“What are you planning, _Thanu men_ , that makes you choose gems of Blood and Tears?”

Kíli turned his head so quickly that some strands of his hair caught several of the finely faceted diamonds and their unceremonious clatter to the stone floor startled poor An, who was sitting humbly on the floor behind and a little to the left of them. She jumped in surprise and the knitting needles in her hands added their own clumsy chime to the silence.

The King and Nali were so close together that his long nose brushed the very tip of hers. Nali’s breath caught in her throat and for a moment, she didn’t dare look her Thane in the eye, for fear of finding anger there. But when his skin slid smoothly against hers, shock lifted her gaze and she found that Kíli was grinning impishly at her, his mahogany eyes dancing mischievously.

 

Oh, how she had missed the impish rascal. She had feared that the losses he had suffered and the weight of his crown would have turned him stern, but it would seem that the playful nature Ríkin had passed along was too strong to be wholly dampened by the darkness of the world. She thought of Dís’ charge - for, indeed, as Kíli had suspected, Nali had been invited to the Mountain to stay for a time and to help nudge their reluctant King toward a marriage that would not burden his heart. Nali knew, for as much as she still very much loved and desired the young King, that their time was past. So, she vowed in that moment, as their noses touched and his dark eyes danced as brightly as any raven’s, that she would see to it that Kíli would not just settle for a political marriage, but for the hand of his One.

And if his One was not a dwarf - for, Dís had told Nali what she knew of Tauriel and the unfortunate shift in her son’s perceptions of beauty - then damn the world. Mahal would will what He would and Nali would make it so.

It was the least she could do for the shy and smiling charmer who had brought so much laughter to her life after the heart-rending loss of her beloved Sviur. Her King would laugh in the presence of his own Beloved and that she swore on Mahal’s own Hammer.

The moment slipped away gently, as Kíli (utterly unaware of Nali’s silent vow) stood up and fished about in the deep pocket of his cobalt-hued jacket. After a moment, he pulled out a well-worn journal, bound shut with a loosely tied leather string. With a flourish, he undid the string and licked his thumb to make the flipping of its thick parchment pages easier. He rifled through at least a good half of the book, before he finally found what he was looking for. He then turned a few more pages and marked the ending of what appeared to be a chapter with the long length of worn leather. He handed the whole thing to Nali and motioned toward a nearby stool.

“My Scribe, Master Ori, has been collecting stories of the North - would you read that one for me?” Kíli jerked his chin toward the battered journal in Nali’s startled hands. “It will answer the question that you asked and I would like to listen to it as I plan my next steps.”

“O-of course, sire,” Nali blinked, a bit bemused by the odd request.

Usually, dwarves preferred to craft in silence and solitude. But, Kíli had always been inspired by the sound of music and the rhythm of a good story telling - this Nali knew from having sat with him while he worked many times before. This was not the first time he had ever asked this of her, but she had assumed, in some vague fashion, that he had grown out of the habit.

Apparently, not. Kíli’s inspiration, it would seem, was forever tied to the timbre and pitch of voice and sound. In that regard, he was so very much like his uncle, Frerin, who had also worked best with a song to accompany the heavy rise and fall of his smith’s hammer.

The fiery merchant gathered her simple, pale pink skirts about her and sat down on the stool that Kíli had offered. She waited patiently as he sat down himself and reached for a wheel made of diamond with which to start shaping the rough pieces of amber into desired preforms. Nali took that as her cue to turn her attention to the neat, if blocky, script between her palms and within moments, her velvety voice began weaving images into the silence of Kíli’s creation.

* * *

 

_Our tale begins in the waning years of the First Age, when Arda was yet new and fresh from its creation. It begins in the ancient lands of Hildorien - the birthplace of the Race of Men, in the south of Cuivenen, along the flanks of the Mountains of the Wind, in the center of our Middle Earth. In those days, there was a valiant bard named Sinuphel - which, in her own tongue, meant “Enchanting”._

_Sinuphel was indeed worthy of her name. She was small for a Man, barely above the height of a tall dwarf, yet she commanded power almost as great as any Istari. She was exceedingly comely in body and in features, but her crowning glory was the brilliance of her hair, upon which even Drúin the Proud, Father of the Blacklocks, heaped great praise. Among Sinuphel’s dwarrow neighbors, she was known as 'Azimul', or ‘Lady of the Golden Color’, and she was greatly treasured by all the races who called Hildorien their home._

_For, she protected them against the Darkness that crept along their borders, lusting and wanting for the sweetness of their corruption. To Sinuphel was granted the gifts of Voice and Song. She could play any instrument of any race, but her favored was a dwarven frame drum, from which she spun songs of passion, defiance, and courage. Her voice, it is said, was as honey - rich, and sweet, and deep, a voice that could soften hearts of stone and woo set minds to better courses. And so, it was with her drum and honeyed voice that she wove spells of might to hold at bay the lusts of dread Morgoth._

_In those days, it was the custom of Men to wed when young and so by her fifteenth year, Sinuphel was bound in marriage to the great Chieftain of Hildorien, the noble Cintapher, who was seven years her elder. For ten years, their marriage was well, for Cintapher and Sinuphel were of like minds and hearts. Cintopher proudly claimed that Sinuphel was the strength of his arm and she was never too proud to claim him as the hymn of her heart._

_There was but ever one marr to their union - for all the passions of their marriage bed, Sinuphel never grew with child. A tremor of sadness wove its way through their love and it was this that Morgoth grabbed to spite Sinuphel’s defiance._

_Oh, for Morgoth lusted long for Sinuphel’s power. Not only did he hunger for the fall of Men, but he stirred deeply in desire for the beauty, grace, and might of Hildorien’s protector. The comeliness of Sinuphel was so great in all her ways, that the corruption of her was a prize for which Morgoth craved with a fierce and ugly passion. But, as Sinuphel aged and her grace but only grew, Morgoth was faced with a bitter defeat. For her spirit was far too strong and far too pure to fall to any Dark illusion or false promise._

_And so, in the darkness of one moonless night, when Sinuphel’s Voice denied Morgoth entrance into Hildorien for yet a hundredth time, he cursed her._

“May this be for all the ages: Cintapher’s wife and all her heirs shall join in love against their law and produce in each generation a half-folk, who shall be shunned by Second-Born and Dwarf-born alike. A Curse upon Sinuphel and may her belly swell with child not born of Cintapher’s seed. _”_

_Sinuphel, for all her wisdom, did not know Morgoth’s own tongue, the broken Melkorin, in which he spoke his curse. So she went back to Cintapher’s bed and the warmth of their hearth, not knowing the truth of Morgoth’s hate._

_The curse unfolded slowly and it was well over a year before the reality of Morgoth’s malediction began to make itself known in Sinuphel’s tranquil life. As she was so pure of thought and deed, the curse did not begin with her, but found its way to Cintapher’s heart, through his sadness over Sinuphel’s empty womb. Anger and bitterness wound its way into the love he held for his treasured wife, until the Strength of His Arm became the very thing he hated. The curse put cruelty into his words and tainted his vision with disgust. The disappointment he had felt in mere passing - for, in truth, Cintapher uncursed was saddened by his lack of heirs, but not so much as to cause him to honor Sinuphel any less - festered in the embrace of Morgoth’s greed and blossomed into a madness the likes of which even fair Sinuphel could not contend._

_On the eve of Hildorien’s spring fest, when the fertility of all wombs was honored, Cintapher’s cursed hate finally made itself known to Sinuphel. Instead of drawing her down into their bed and pleasuring her so that her womb would welcome his seed, he cursed at her himself. In a rage, he pronounced her unfit and unbecoming. As tears fell like diamonds from Sinuphel’s sapphire eyes, Cintapher named her loathsome and repulsive, shriveled and barren like the waste of her womb. And then he hit her so that she fell across their bed and cruelly commanded her to leave his sight._

_There was but one that Sinuphel could think to run to - her dearly beloved friend, Khazí, youngest prince of the Blacklocks. Khazí and Sinuphel had grown together from Sinuphel’s very birth, for it was Khazí’s mother, ‘Dam Luin, who had been her midwife. For, you see, in those days, the Second-born and Dwarf-born were the surest of allies, especially those of Hildorien and **Tumunumahâl**._

_In tears, Sinuphel rushed to the forge that Khazí kept there, in the settlement of Men. It was there, with a rising rage, that Khazí tended to the brutal welt on Sinuphel’s comely face and listened to her broken sorrow. Furious, the dwarf prince vowed to call Cintapher out in combat and exact a harsh justice for the Chieftain’s grievous crime. But Sinuphel - who despite the horror of her husband’s betrayal - pleaded with Khazí to aid her in another way._

“Make me beautiful, my dear friend _,” she took Khazí’s hardened hands in hers and begged. “_ For of all the races within this world, none can fashion beauty out of what is not with more skill than the Dwarf-born. _”_

_Khazí could not deny Sinuphel’s request, for he had long loved her, with all the loyalty and honor of a dwarf toward his One. So, he bade her to stay with him, so that he could protect her against Cintapher’s hand, if the need arose. And he worked without sleeping for seven days and seven nights, to fashion a gift of beauty the likes of which Arda had not yet seen._

_First, Khazí gathered to him gems of great wealth and rarity - Tears of Yavanna, to represent all the ones Sinuphel had ever shed in defense of Hildorien, in defense of Men and Dwarves, in defense of her own honor against the accusations of unworthiness. He then chose the most treasured of all Dwarven gems, the Blood-jewels of Mahal, to summon upon their bearer all the power of love, fertility, and creativity that the Maker had sprinkled himself across the span of Arda. And then, he spun a rare and precious gold, tempered quite by accident by blood from his own hand, drawn by a cut he tore across his palm in a moment of uncommon carelessness._

_It was, however, Morgoth’s curse at work, slyly turning Khazí’s love against him. The blood of his hand infused the gold he melted with a dusky, rose sheen. By Khazí’s hand and blood, he created Arda’s first claret gold, infused with the strength of his heart and the greatness of the love he carried for Sinuphel. Ordinarily, a mistake of blood mixed in liquid metal would have caused Khazí to toss the metal out and start anew. But the sheen of the rose-tinted gold was so becoming, that he added more of his blood as he fashioned great loops of delicate chain for the mounting of the jewels that he had selected. And it was his blood - the strength of his love and devotion - that would seal his fate and that of the very one he so adored._

_In the end, Khazí created a necklace of the kind never seen since in Middle Earth. During the whole of his creation, Sinuphel sat with Khazí in his place of work, at the forge and the jeweler’s table. In those days, the curse shifted the nobleness of Khazí’s honor and when he was done fashioning her beauty, he was gripped with a fierce longing to have her for himself. For, within those seven days and nights, the necklace he crafted for Sinuphel became less of a token of beauty to tempt Cintapher’s desire and more of a token of Khazí’s own unrequited desire for the Second-born woman._

_And yet, in the way of Dwarves, Khazí resisted the temptations stirring within him. He gave Sinuphel her necklace and sent her on her way with naught but a kiss on the hand and a murmured prayer for Mahal’s sacred blessing._

_It was but hours later that Sinuphel returned to Khazí’s forge, in tears and pain. Even the magic of Dwarven craft could not sway the cruelty of Morgoth’s curse on Cintapher’s senses. Oh, he did indeed find Sinuphel desirous, upon seeing her bearing naught but Khazí’s golden chains and fiery jewels. But their coupling was harsh, with no thought given to Sinuphel’s pleasure and her once-tender husband soon left her to weep in shame and unfulfillment._

_Yet again, she fled to Khazí and so great was her desire to escape from Cintapher’s cruelty, that she arrived at the prince’s forge with nothing more than a cloak cast about her necklace-clad body. Khazí took her in his arms to comfort her and the curse finally came to its fruition. Weakened by her sorrow, Sinuphel clung to Khazí’s tenderness and Khazí, weakened by his anger toward Cintapher’s brutality and the binding of blood he had so unwittingly woven into his gift, found that he could no longer deny the depth of his desires. And so, when he hoarsely asked Sinuphel to let him see her clad in his creation, she granted it._

_Nor did Sinuphel deny Khazí, when he pulled her down upon her cloak and lay with her before the ever-burning fire of his forge. For hours he pleasured her, whispering words of his people against her skin, claiming her with certainty and devoted intent. For hours, Sinuphel willingly abandoned herself to the hardness of Khazí’s body and the gentleness of his hands. Through the full length of the night they moved together joyfully and loved each other slowly, until they both fell asleep at the sun’s first rays of dawning - Sinuphel’s fingers wrapped in Khazí’s thick black braids and his hand tangled in her own golden strands._

_Sinuphel returned to Cintapher upon that morn, but in the face of her husband’s cold disdain, she fell further and further into the warmth of Khazí’s consuming passion. For two moons, Sinuphel and Khazí lay together, until Sinuphel began to see her belly swell. Khazí’s seed had taken root where Cintapher’s had not and a choice was forced upon the two lovers._

_Cintapher’s derision did not abate, but he no longer hit her. Pleased with himself, Cintapher blindly believed that he had filled the emptiness of Sinuphel’s womb on the night that she had come to him adorned in Khazí’s gift. For their part, Sinuphel and Khazí did not correct Cintapher’s assumption and in the long months of her waiting, the dwarf prince and his lover continued to meet. In her sixth month with child, Khazí told her of his desire to take her away from Cintapher and Hildorien, even Tumunumahâl._

“You are mine, Beloved _,” he told her one eve, as they lay yet again before his fire. “_ And I am not ashamed to claim you, for Cintapher has lost his honor to madness. Let us go to the North, to the Frozen Lands. I have written in secret to my cousin, Sääli, who wed the lord of the Stiffbeards. We are welcome in **Kibil-tarag**. _”_

_Weary of Cintapher’s dismissal, Sinuphel agreed to flee with Khazí. It was, however, the beginning of winter at that time, so they both agreed to leave Hildorien after the first thaw, just before the start of the **Blessed Green Fest**. That was another six months hence and left them both with plenty of time to prepare for their escape._

_Sinuphel gave birth in the midst of Iklaladrân. She insisted on giving birth unaided by midwife or witness, claiming that the birth of her child was a sacred rite that she would claim on her own standing. Unknown to all - and unexpected by Sinuphel - Khazí joined her in the lone birthing hut at the edge of Cintapher’s city. In the throes of her struggle to push life into existence, Sinuphel could not find it within herself to insist that Khazí leave her be; together, the lovers welcomed not one child into their waiting arms, but two. Twins they were, born of love forbidden by all laws: Ucin, son of Khazí, son of Drúin, and Ulaphel, daughter of Sinuphel, wife of Cintapher._

_And so began the line of the Umli, cursed of Morgoth, half of Men and half of Dwarf._

* * *

 

“By Mahal’s own beard!” Glóin harrumphed from his guard just outside the chamber door, which was well within hearing range of Nali’s voice. “No more! What a fell tale!”

“Are you sure you don’t want to hear about how Sinuphel’s dishonor was discovered by a maid on the very eve that she and Khazí were to leave for Kibil-tarag? Or how a curse-maddened Cintapher tricked Khazí in a duel of justice and ran him through with his own blade?” Nali called teasingly to the guardsman as she briefly glanced ahead of where Glóin had stopped her.

“Of _course_ the prince dies,” Glóin grumbled. “I don’t think I could bear the rest - what a woeful legend,” his voice grew a bit stronger as his bushy red beard and squinty eyes peered around the corner of the archway. “Clearly, the babes survived, as there’s that Umli mason in Dale. That’s all I need to know,” he added gruffly and Nali had to hide her smile at the odd shine in the elder dwarf’s dark eyes.

Glóin, it would appear, had a weakness for tragic, romantic tales. His face abruptly disappeared again and he said no more, but there was a loud sniff or two from behind the privacy of the chamber wall.

“I imagine you already know how the story ends?” Nali turned to Kíli, who had paused long enough in his gem-cutting to smirk over his shoulder at where Glóin’s watery eyes had been.

“Indeed,” he nodded and then heaved a dramatic sigh. “Sinuphel watched as Khazí fought and fell for her honor. Then she fled in the darkness of night for the North, though she couldn’t bring herself to live in Kibil-tarag, among the Dwarf-born. She settled in Urd, instead, in the far north of Endor, near the Iron Mountains, where she and the twins were taken in by the Lossoth, or Snowmen, of that region. When Ucin and Ulaphel were fourteen years of age, Sinaphel was slain by the cold-drake, Lamthanc.”

At that revelation, there was another despairing groan from beyond the chamber archway and Kíli shared a crooked, playful grin with Nali at Glóin’s expense.

“And Cintapher was freed from the curse in Sinuphel’s absence, and he spent the rest of his life in regret and grief. Drúin never forgave him the death of his son and the trust between Men and Dwarves in the East was forever severed,” Nali added, her eyes skimming quickly over the last page of Ori’s precise and pleasant script.

“But, not all ended ill!” Kíli assured the loud sniff that followed Nali’s summary. “Ucin killed Lamthanc and later wed Báis, daughter of Broin, a lord of the Blacklocks. And Ulaphel grew to become a powerful priestess of Mahal and married a Lossadan Man of great strength and honor, by the name of Aluenda.”

“Still a bloody awful tale,” Glóin was set in his opinion of the legend.

“It _is_ a sad one,” Nali agreed, as she gently closed Ori’s journal, knowing without having to be told that her eyes would not be welcome on the other pages within it. “Surely, Your Majesty,” she paused to consider the red diamonds and amber on the table next to her with a sudden understanding. “You’re not planning to recreate Sinuphel’s necklace!”

“Why not?” Kíli pointedly refused to meet her gaze and instead peered critically at the preform amber he had just finished shaping. “The original no longer exists, as Sinophel wore it to her dying day and burned along with it in the frozen fire of Lamthanc’s breath.”

“Seems as if it’d be a cursed thing,” Glóin’s face cautiously reappeared and he, too, eyed what he could see of the jeweler’s table with no small amount of skepticism.

“Khazí’s love was sure long before Morgoth’s curse used it to its own end,” Kíli shook his head and his father’s aglet flashed bright against the top-most opening of his tunic. “And the necklace was never cursed, either. It was created with love and devotion; against his own desires, Khazí gave it willingly up to Sinuphel to win back her own husband. It wasn’t until she returned, dishonored by Cintopher’s cruelty, that he gave in to his heart,” the young King argued earnestly, his eyes never straying from the rough jewel and polishing wheel in his hands. “Khazí loved Sinuphel as his One - he stood by her, was present at the birth of his heirs, and fought for her honor. Died for it, really. The villain of the story is _not_ Khazí.”

“No, but he _is_ the Fool of it,” Glóin dourly decreed.

“Is he?” Kíli’s fingers paused and he unconsciously chewed at the bottom of his lip as his thoughts drifted, unbidden, to Tauriel. “Can we ever help who we love? Or is it all but a curse?” his eyes grew dark and troubled, his voice dropping low as if speaking to himself.

“Love most certainly turns us _all_ to fools,” Nali stated firmly, secretly distressed by the sadness that dimmed the light in her Thane’s handsome face. “But it is _never_ a curse,” she tossed a disapproving look at Glóin, who seemed to realize that he’d gone a bit too far and grimaced in apology. “Your Majesty, if you desire to create a treasure from legend - a treasure crafted with selfless devotion, whatever the end of the tale - then it should be a grace to the Halls of Erebor. And who knows?” Nali leaned in toward Kíli and gently touched the edge of his tunic sleeve, urging him to meet her gaze. “Perhaps it, too, will help draw your eye to a hidden beauty.”

“So, you think I should dangle this before the maids of Erebor as a courting gift?” the young King couldn’t quite help the bitterness in his voice, or the disapproval that flashed across his face.

“Not at all, _Thanu men_ ,” Nali matched his frown with one of her own. “But, when you reveal this to Erebor at the _Harnkegger_ ’s Feast in naught but four days, all present _are_ going to assume that this is a courting gift. Use it to _your_ advantage,” the wily merchant leaned back and her hazel eyes sparred a long moment with the darker gaze of her King. “Tell me, sire, appearance aside, what would you find beautiful in your One?”

Kíli had never considered such a question - much less ever been asked it. Nali’s bluntness took him back a bit and for the silent span of nearly five minutes, stone and wheel lay unforgotten between his blunt fingers. Finally, he turned his gaze toward the window stretched wide before him and squinted thoughtfully against the brilliance of the sun as it began its steady descent through the hours of a languid afternoon.

“I would desire a woman of wit, who could laugh with me, who could make me laugh. I think I would desire a woman of knowledge, who has seen the world and perhaps knows of war, who would not look at me in fear when I wake in the middle of the night,” Kíli resolutely refused to look anywhere but straight ahead into the light, as he softly admitted to his night-terrors. “I desire an equal, truly, a Queen with wisdom to guide the Mountain should duty take me elsewhere for a time. I would, if I could, love a maid who possesses grace and ferocity in equal measure, who does not judge or dismiss those who are not like her, who can perhaps share with me new adventures and I with her.”

“And of that list, what to you is most desirable? Most beautiful?” Nali gently prodded.

Kíli thought deeply and chewed his lip for a moment; the odd habit had long endeared him to his former Courtesan, and she fought the urge to wrap her arms around his neck and hug him silly. Since, well, kissing wasn’t an option.

“An equal,” Kíli finally decided, after thinking hard of what it was about Tauriel that had attracted him most deeply.

The Elf-maid had never looked down on him, had never held his appearance (which by her people’s standards was just shy of hideous) against him, and had never valued him based on the worth of his lineage. She had fought for him, fought with him, and had not once ever expected him to save her from the dangers they encountered.

The common thread that had tied all of his interactions with Tauriel together was one of respect - a respect born from a certain sense of equality with one another. Tauriel never once hinted by demeanor or word that she thought herself superior to Kíli, even though their fleeting romance was well-defined by her constantly pulling him out of his own troubles. She certainly never carried herself as if she considered herself superior by virtue of her own race; nor did she ever defer to Kíli’s title, as technically she was, Elf or not, a Captain to his Crown.

No, Tauriel had treated him with the compassion and dignity of a being that, while different from her, still contained within him the light of life. “Pure and precious”, she had called his heart and truly, he had thought the same of hers. They had been equal in word and deed toward one another, neither one considering the other above or below their own self.

With dwarves, though.... Kíli sighed. With dwarves, he was King Under the Mountain. He could never escape that title and even though he was teaching himself to honor it, he did not want a ‘dam who would remind him of what he had won by sole virtue of his losses. What would he find beautiful? What his mother had found in her father - “ _a dwarf that was so undaunted by crowns and royal titles._ ” A ‘dam who was bold enough to get in his face, speak her mind, and poke him in the chest.

A sharp laugh fell from his lips, as the image of Kivi Journeyman - fiesty, fiery, and unyielding, with those eyes that flashed like River Running’s waterfalls - sprang to mind.

“You seem to have a maid in mind already,” Nali misinterpreted her King’s laugh, which just made him laugh harder.

“Mahal, _no_ ,” he chortled heartily, some of his good mood restored at her expense. “Let’s just say that I’ve encountered an example of how the virtue of equality can go a little too far.”

“Well, then let us not entertain extremes,” Nali smiled, willing enough to laugh along with him, no matter his reason for amusement. “When you present this necklace to the Mountain, use it as a challenge, make _it_ the prize to be won and not your Crown.”

“What do you mean?” Kíli titled his head to the side in momentary confusion, not quite certain of Nali’s point.

“Say that you will grant the necklace as a courting gift to the ‘dam who can tell you the tale that gave birth to it,” Nali leaned in toward Kíli – who was still frowning at her, quite unconvinced – and whispered conspiratorially. “And say also that you will grant it to the one who is already beautiful in your eyes, _without_ the aid of jewels or gold.”

“Even if you take out the jewels and gold, that’s _still_ going to get me bombarded by a bunch of primping dwarrow-maids,” Kíli argued, his voice also a throaty whisper.

Nali’s eyes twinkled, undeterred by Kíli’s disapproval.

“Your Majesty,” she winked. “This is _precisely_ how you want to stir to the pot. Because, the maid that’s meant for you will be the one who won’t lift a finger to change herself to catch your eye. She’ll be the one you never see until she’s made the choice to stand right in front of you, beautiful as she already is.”

“Fine. But, why do I need to promise a courting gift?” Kíli insisted stubbornly; he couldn’t quite shake the horror of dwarrow-dams throwing themselves at him.

Nali’s teeth flashed bright in the sunlight.

“It’s like panning for gold, dear sire. In order to spot the prize, you have to shake out the stones.”  


 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tumunumahâl - the ancestral home of the Blacklock dwarves.


	14. Wise Men Speak

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Kivi receives wise council from two Men she holds in high esteem...

“ _Haven't seen the end of it yet,  
We'll fight as long as we live.”_

“ **Song of the Lonely Mountain”**

**Neil Finn**

* * *

**Adadnurt (Ad) 'Afkalm 29th**

_(Wednesday April 28th)_

_**Dale** _

* * *

 

It was a lovely late afternoon, with fluffy white clouds drifting along in an azure sky. A languid sort of contentment seemed to hover over Dale and except for the activity along the southern wall, there wasn't much movement in the streets. The air was humid and hazy; old Artur sagely predicted rain for the morrow or, at the very least, the day after that. As far as Kivi could see, there wasn't a storm cloud to be spotted, even in the distant horizon, but her grizzled foreman assured her that the first storm of summer was brewing just beyond Erebor's lonely peak.

A fat bumblebee buzzed lazily in the air right next to Kivi's left ear, as she lovingly packed her tools in the wooden carrying case that she had built for them. She jerked abruptly, surprised by the unexpected drone of wings so close to her face and Artur chuckled pleasantly.

"'Tis but a bee, lass," the white-haired Man watched with amusement as the inquisitive little insect insisted on trying to land on Kivi's Kin Braid. "Methinks he's mistaken ya' fer a marigold."

"Well, he's going to be sorely disappointed," Kivi sighed dramatically, but stood still so the bee could sate his curiosity.

Secretly, she loved bees. They reminded her of her mother's sister, _Täti_ Hunaja, who had proudly cultivated several large hives in the nestled fields at the base of Kivi Torni. Many a lazy summer day, almost like this one, had been spent watching, wide-eyed, as Hunaja lovingly opened hive after hive and withdrew enormous combs of golden honey. Some of Kivi's fondest memories were of tasting honeycomb fresh from the hive, sweet and sticky across the pads of her little fingers. Hunaja had taught her how to talk to the bees, so that they would know that she was a friend; she taught Kivi the prayers of thanks to murmur when opening the hive and removing its treasures. And most importantly, Hunaja had taught her precocious niece how to stand still and to let a bee take its time inspecting her.

" _They do no harm. Let them come and talk to you. 'Tis impolite to shoo them away - would you shoo away a stranger? No, of course not. All of Arda's creatures are the same. Let them greet you, let them come and go, and they will always respect you.”_

"I washed my hair last eve with one of Mistress Katrikki's herbal rinses," she continued smoothly, the memories of Hunaja flashing through her mind even as she spoke. "What this little fellow hopes for is sage and lavendula."

Artur laughed, delighted by the dwarf-maid's calm acceptance of an innocent little creature, the likes of which had caused more than enough dramatic consternation for other dwarrow-dams he'd observed in the past year. Most didn't seem to mind, to be fair, but there were those who just didn't seem to know what to make of wild things. It always seemed, too, in Artur's observations, that it was those with the most elaborate tresses who made the most fuss over such harmless buzzing things like bees. Something to do with the blasted wee things getting caught in their hair, or some such nonsense.

Kivi continued to pack up the last of her tools - trowel, bricklayer's hammer, hawk, and joint filler. The plump bee buzzed happily about her head, drawn to the scent of herbs that still clung to her thick braids. He seemed quite determined to follow her about, and both foreman and mason laughed as the wee beastie bobbed to and fro with Kivi's every movement.

"Come along, little friend," Kivi giggled, as she heaved her heavy case up and off of her makeshift work table. "Let me show you where you can find some real sage."

"Leaving for the day, _Mestari_?" Artur hauled himself to his feet with a groan; he was well over fifty years of age and the seasons were beginning to wear on his limbs.

He was still, however, sharp of mind and skill; in her private opinion, Kivi thought Artur one of the finest masons among any of the Men that she had worked with over the years. He had traveled to Dale from a far-off town called Bree, drawn by the promise of good work and better pay. Recently widowed and having never had children to grace his marriage, Artur had left the only home he'd known the whole of his life, to try at least one grand adventure before he died. Kivi was glad for his daring and daily thanked Mahal for bringing their paths together as he was the finest of foremans to be had – loyal, honest, and fair.

"Yes," she nodded cheerfully and the bee bounced along with her long bangs. "Thank you for taking over for me this afternoon. There's some business I must address among my kin."

Artur flapped his gnarled hand at her with a pleasant smile of approval.

"No need to explain yourself, _Mestari_. I am always happy to help, no reason necessary. We'll have the archway completed by sunset, as you wish."

"Mahal bless you, Artur," Kivi smiled back at the older Man; she turned to go, but then hesitated, instead of stepping out from under the shade of the little awning that kept sun and rain from damaging her work-space.

Something tugged at her, whispered wordlessly in the back of her mind, and urged her to ask advice of the Man she had come to respect. Many things had been tumbling about in Kivi's thoughts since her talk with Jarvi; cracks of doubt were beginning to spread through her hard-headed defenses. In the last twenty-four hours, she'd begun to wonder about the wisdom (and fairness) of her blatant refusal to pay Erebor any heed.

" _You're all but showin' him your bare_ _ass_ _._ "

Seppä's scathing opinion of her actions rang inside of her memory.

Would it really be so terrible if she accepted King Kíli's request for help? Was it truly so hard to trust her kin of Durin's House?

"You were leaving, _Mestari_?" a questioning hand gently touched her shoulder and Kivi started with a soft yelp of surprise.

"Oh!" she blinked sheepishly up at Artur's worried green eyes and flushed a bright pink in embarrassment.

"Your thoughts seem heavy, Kivi," her foreman spoke quietly, as there were other workers moving to and fro within earshot. "Is there something troubling you that I might help ease?"

The Stiffbeard mason drew a deep breath and was surprised to feel tears prick the corners of her eyes. Artur's concern - and astute observance - touched her deeply. Kivi had learned long ago that acts of kindness were few and far between; gestures of true friendship even more rare.

" _Friendship binds us all as kin, never forget that, Daughter. Never deny the offer of kinship with another who has proven their honor. Forging such bonds keeps the children of Thulin strong, as the sole dwarven House to stand united with other races in the North. We learned our lesson well; without friendships blind to blood or race, we cannot survive this barren land_."

Taavi's husky, lyrical voice echoed in her mind - the importance of recognizing, accepting, and honoring friendship was one of the very first lessons Kivi had learned as a dwarfling. The House of Thulin would have long fallen, if it hadn't been for the bravery of Men, the loyalty of Umli, and the kindness of Elves. The Stiffbeards never forgot that.

"Tell me, Artur," she said at long last, as she turned her gaze toward the distant mountain, so that he wouldn't see her tears. "What would you do if your kin asked you to rebuild their city, but you had already accepted payment to rebuild another?"

Artur's arthritic, but crafty hands squeezed the dwarf-maid's shoulder fondly, as if to say that he understood perfectly what she _wasn't_ saying. His voice was low and earnest as he answered thoughtfully.

"Well...I s'pose that if these two cities were but right nigh each other, I would honor the request of the one an' the oath made to the other. I would pick two foremen wisely - master masons who are both honest an' true - an' split my time 'tween one city and the other."

"Supervise _both_?" Kivi's tears had receded, thankfully without falling, and she risked a quick glance up at Artur in surprise. "Can that even be done?"

"Don't see why not," Artur patted her shoulder one last time and then reached up to tug at the long strands of his wispy gray beard. "Would require long hours on occasion, careful plannin', an' meticulous management o' time, resources, an' workmen," he glanced slyly down at her and winked. "But, if'n I was told to choose who to head up such a thing, I'd say any endeavor would be doomed to fail unless you were at the fore."

Kivi just shook her head; her little bee-friend was still deeply enamored with her and he circled her hair like a halo, buzzing loudly in disapproval.

"I sometimes think that I am given entirely too much credit."

"It's only yer self that doesn't give ya' ' _nough_ credit," Artur disagreed with a sage sigh. "Yer a born leader, _Mestari_ , if ever I've met one. Y've put me in mind o' Master Bard, or the mighty Thorin Oakenshield who won that yonder mountain," he jerked his chin toward Erebor. "'Ave since the first I met ya'. An' that's all any o' us masons need, really - a Master to lead us.

"An' don't think y'd be goin' back on yer word to Master Bard," Artur cut her off, as Kivi opened her mouth to protest yet again. "Or that y'd not be doin' any work. Y'd be doin' all the work fer us – dwarf or Man, doesn't matter. We'd merely be puttin' our chisels where you tell us. 'Tis the chief job o' a Master Mason - to delegate, to direct. Y've earned the right by test an' trial to guide the rest o' us, an' to pull out yer tools only when y'need to teach or correct."

Kivi was silent for a long moment, as she stared at Erebor's high spire, which peeked over the edge of Dale's new walls. Artur's praise and confidence made her uncomfortable, but he spoke with all the wisdom of his age and mastery. To deny his words would be to insult his vast wealth of knowledge.

“Thank you for your council, Artur,” she sighed heavily, but dipped her head respectfully toward her elder. “You have given me much to consider.”

“No trouble t’all, _Mestari_ ,” the grizzled foreman flashed her a gap-toothed smile. “Y’can always count on me.”

* * *

 

It was Etsijä who finally turned the tide.

Kivi was surprised to see him - the placid Man kept to himself, despite being a welcome member of her Northern party. He was, by trade, a hunter, although what he hunted had changed quite dramatically since journeying beyond the borders of his frozen homeland. Before throwing his lot in with his Stiffbeard kin, the short, wiry man had hunted whales, white bears, walruses, seals, and other creatures of the icy, arctic sea.

Etsijä, and the Lossoth of the Forodwaith as a whole, were largely unaffected by the Ironfists' hostile occupation of Kivi Torni. But, in ages past, Etsijä's ancestors had forged strong bonds with the Stiffbeards. Oaths had been bound by blood and solemn rites; even though the two peoples had drifted apart in the centuries since, the Lossoth still took the promises of their patriarchs to heart. When word had reached Etsijä of the Harrowing, he – and many others of his kin – left to lend their aid.

By the time Etsijä and his companions reached the Stiffbeards' conquered lands, Kivi had already been rescued from Synkkä's grasp. Lots were drawn among the Men and Etsijä drew the smallest token - so he traveled south after Kivi, while the others stayed to help their dwarrow kin organize a resistance as best they could.

It had taken Etsijä nearly thirteen years to finally find Kivi, so well had she hidden her tracks; he finally caught up with her in Dol Amroth and had stayed by her side ever since. He came and he went, though, trading furs, meat, tusks, skins, and bones. Half of his gains he gave to Kivi, to help with Kari and Kal; unbeknownst to Etsijä, however, Kivi had been quietly matching the hunter's payments with gains of her own, intending to pay him back, plus interest, once Kivi-Torni was won again.

He had been out on one of his expeditions for almost two full moons, so Kivi was quite surprised to see the Lossoth hunter slip silently out of a nearby alleyway and glide noiselessly over the cobblestones to join her in front of her open door. Twilight was just beginning to deepen and an almost-full moon was peeking over towering Erebor. Storm clouds were gathering, though - just as Artur predicted - and the wind pushed the occasional cumulonimbus against the lunar light.

"Welcome back!" Kivi straightened her shoulders and sat back as far as she could in her chair; a long strand of Kal's hair was grasped between her fingers, so she couldn't stand up as she would have normally done. "I wasn't expecting you to return before the end of summer."

Etsijä usually came and went according to the turning of the seasons. Hunting was at a prime during the summer and autumn months, so when the Man had left Dale at the start of the spring, Kivi had assumed that he would stay out in the wilds until sometime in the summer, if not the fall. It was not at all uncommon for the short, swarthy man to spend most of his year away from settled lands; the noise, bustle, and chaos of civilization unsettled him. Etsijä never said anything about it, but Kivi could always tell that a part of the Man was forever gone away, back in the forsaken, silent wilderness of ice and snow that his people had called "home" for generations.

"The bones told me that I was needed here," Etsijä squatted down next to Kivi's stool; the dwarf-maid raised a ruddy eyebrow.

"Oh?" she returned her attention to her nephew's hair and continued braiding where she had abruptly let off.

In addition to being the former leader of his tribe, Etsijä was also a shaman. The High Father of the Stiffbeards - the chieftain's husband - was also, traditionally, a shaman, Sworn to serve both Yavanna and Mahal. Portents read in bone, blood, leaf, and wood was not unknown to Kivi herself, as she had once sat on her father's knee and listened avidly to his teaching. She had not touched the rune-stones, however, nor sought the illumination of their mysteries, since catching sight of her father's head tied to Synkkä's belt.

"Yes," Etsijä all but grunted his reply - he was not, ever, a man of many words.

Kivi, knowing this, shot the Lossoth at her side a bemused glance.

"Care to elaborate, old friend?"

"The bones do not elaborate," Etsijä shrugged, as if their discussion was nothing more than casual. "I am needed. I have come."

He rocked back on his heels, though, and Kivi knew him well enough to recognize the posture of a Man deep in thought. She waited patiently, however - one could only ever be patient, when it came to Etsijä. He was well known for his habit of thinking long before he spoke; such was a trait of the Lossoth, as a whole. There was little need for wasteful words on the Frozen Wastes.

“It would seem that they have spoken to me not soon enough,” he finally turned his gaze toward her, his deep-set, narrow eyes lingering meaningfully on the braid that Kivi held between her fingers. “There have been great changes since I left, I see.”

“ _Täti_ is braiding my hair for the...the…” Kal all but bounced in his seat, boundless enthusiasm as always; he scrunched up his nose, however, in an attempt to remember the dwarrow word for the fast approaching Deep Ale Fest. “The...the...Garbalzurag.”

Kivi made a choking sound in the back of her throat as she tried desperately not to laugh. Thankfully, it was Kari who corrected her brother, in the tone of a disproving school-marm.

“It’s called _Gargbuzrâmrâg_ , _veli_.” [ _“Brother”_ ]

The little dwarfling paused in her pursuit of a particularly evasive firefly, hands on her hips and nose in the air. She still clutched a small glass jar in one hand small fist and struck an endearing (if imperious) figure in the fading twilight. For just a moment, Kivi blinked tears away from her eye, reminded quite suddenly of her mother in Kari’s winsome face.

“Why must dwarves have such difficult words?” Kal pouted, quite put upon by his sister’s apparent grasp of the pronunciation that evaded him.

“You must not think of it as difficult,” Kivi admonished gently, with an equally benign tug on his half-finished braid. “Were I a wiser _täti_ , you would not think such things of your heritage.”

Kal just huffed, as if greatly put upon, but he didn’t contradict his elder. The street fell silent once again as Kivi put her whole attention into weaving together the flaxen strands of her nephew’s hair.

“You have made a decision, then?” Etsijä’s watchful eyes followed the intricate movements of Kivi’s nimble fingers.

She knew what the weathered hunter meant - had she made a decision to finally start building alliances in the south, in order to return to Kivi-Torni and take back her ancestral lands from their usurpers? Had she finally decided to become the chieftain - her mother’s daughter - that the Stiffbeards needed?

The answers to those questions were too complex, too daunting for Kivi to answer there, in the quiet of Dale's gentle gloaming. Her throat tightened in sudden fear and raw emotion; she could only shake her head, rendered mute by her inexplicable self-doubt, and avoided the knowing gaze of Etsijä’s sable eyes.

“ _Täti_ says that it’s time Kal and I learned to be Khazâd,” Kari, who was quite precocious in her youth, tried to answer Etsijä’s question for her silent guardian, within the limitations of her understanding. “She's teaching us new words, and she’s braiding our hair, and she’s said that we’re to start learning our trades.”

Kari’s warm weight settled comfortably against Kivi’s thigh; the dwarfling seemed to have tired of her firefly hunting, her attention now directed by a conversation she found far more interesting. Bright blue eyes twinkled proudly in the flickering glow of the firelight that poured out of the open door behind them.

“Ah,” Etsijä made a quiet noise - Kivi assumed it was one of approval - in the back of his throat. “And what trades are you to learn?” the edges of the Man’s thin lips curled up in a fond smile.

“ _Täti_ is going to take me to work with her,” Kal interrupted suddenly, clearly too excited to share his news to wait patiently for his sister to share hers.

Kivi tutted quietly and tugged sharply on his just-finished braid in reprimand. Kal winced and glanced over his shoulder, his smooth-skinned face twisted into an expression of passing petulance. Etsijä just chuckled softly and put a gnarled hand out to pat the young dwarfling’s knee.

“While it is rude to interrupt your sister, I am glad to hear of your apprenticeship. It is good news; the House of Thulin is ever blessed by masters of stone and mallet.”

“I am going to be apprenticed to _Mestari_ Seppä,” Kari - not to be outdone by her brother - piped up the instant Etsijä turned his gaze to her. “He’s going to teach me how to make my own weapons and how to fight!”

“I must actually speak to you of Kari’s apprenticeship,” Kivi murmured as she absently combed her fingers through the rest of Kal’s unbraided, unruly hair. “She has the wild heart of the Umli and will soon need a _mestari_ to teach her the way of the wilds.”

“Will you be teaching me?” Kari’s hopeful eyes looked over her brother’s head toward Etsijä; the hunter shook his head and offered the dwarfling an apologetic smile.

“No, I’m afraid not. A woman must teach you, a dwarrow-dam or an Umlit - a woman who is of your own blood. Part of your apprenticeship is to learn the ways of your people and while we are kin, the ways of Men and Dwarf differ greatly. And life amid the _erämaassa_ is different for men and for women; there is much that I cannot teach you.” [ _“Wilds”_ ]

“Oh,” to say that Kari was crestfallen, would have been an understatement; Kivi gently pulled her hand from Kal’s hair and reached out to her niece, to wrap her in a consoling, one-armed embrace.

“But, Etsijä will find you a _mestari_ ,” Kivi glanced over at her old friend, who nodded in solemn agreement. “And in the meantime, you will train with _Mestari_ Seppä, for at least a year and a day. That way,” Kivi reached up and smoothed her hand lovingly across the lace-style braid that graced the curve of Kari’s brow. “You will be ready to face the _erämaassa_ with strength and courage.”

Kari opened her mouth as if to respond, but a long yawn took the place of words. That caused Kal to yawn as well, as he reached up and rubbed the corners of his eyes with the knuckles of his right hand.

“It looks like it’s bed time for our wee dwarflings,” Jarvi’s deep voice surprised Kivi and she titled her head back to look toward the doorway to the left of her.

Her cousin’s solid width blocked the firelight, so his face was in shadow, but his voice was soft and he looked dressed for bed himself. He wore a sleeveless off-white tunic and a pair of baggy brown pants that were frayed at the edges and patched in far too many places to make it practical for every-day wear. Jarvi’s enormous biceps flexed as he crossed his arms over his broad chest and his unbound hair fell in tangled strands over the breadth of his shoulders.

“But, I’m not s-s-” Kal’s protestation was undermined by another jaw-splitting yawn; Jarvi chuckled warmly.

“Come on you two,” his bare feet whispered across the doorstep, as he unfolded his arms and reached for the dwarflings. “I think it’s time we left _Täti_ and _Mestari_ Etsijä to their talk.”

Now that he had stepped out from the doorway, Kivi could see her cousin’s cheerful face. He winked at her and she knew that he had been sitting inside listening keenly to everything that had been said.

“Will you tell us a story?” Kari asked plaintively, as Jarvi grasped her hand and reached for Kal with his other.

“I want one about dragons!” Kal ignored the hand that was offered to him, as he shot up from the stool that had been situated between Kivi’s spread feet.

“Hmmm,” Jarvi’s mustache twitched with the temptation of a smile, but he managed to hide it behind a lofty, thoughtful gaze down at the dwarfling. “Have we told you yet of Kani, the brave **Avari** queen who saved _Isä_ Thulin from a fate worse than death?”

Both Kal and Kari gave Jarvi such looks of incredulity, that Kivi couldn’t help laughing out loud. Her cousin’s teeth flashed bright white against the fire reflected against his mustache and with that, he grabbed Kal playfully and picked him up, feet swinging, and tucked him under his arm. Kari’s hand stayed firmly in his and without further ado, the three turned toward the doorway and their warm beds beyond.

Jarvi’s voice became a pleasant murmur in the background as he journeyed further into the humble home he shared with Kivi and the twins. Kivi laid her now-idle hands in her lap and smiled faintly as she turned her gaze up toward the furtive clouds up above her that chased the moon across the evening sky.

“So, you have decided to teach the young ones how to be Stiffbeards. This is good and right,” Etsijä finally spoke after a long silence that had been broken only by the pleasant rumble of Jarvi’s story-telling voice. “But,” a heavy hand reached out and grasped Kivi’s shoulder, forcing her to turn her gaze over toward her friend; dark eyes searched her own with grave intent. “What of you, _Päällikkö_. Will you become Khazâd again?”

Kivi chewed her lip for several agonizing moments; in a furtive attempt to avoid the Lossoth’s question, she broke his gaze, turned her head to the other side, and half-heartedly listened to the fable being told not-so-far behind her. The words, the story, were familiar to her - many times she had been tucked into bed herself to that same tale. Tears pricked the corners of her eyes as, for a moment, she let herself imagine it was Oskari’s voice singing Queen Kani's fierce battle song.

“I’m afraid, Etsijä,” she whispered, her voice breaking as her tears began to stain her cheeks with watery streaks that flashed like crystal shards in the firelight. “I’m afraid I no longer remember how to be a daughter of Thulin. I have spent too many years in the lands of Men.”

“You have not forgotten, if you have found the words with which to teach your brother’s children,” Etsijä answered kindly, but his own words had a thrum of power to them that made Kivi finally turn her tear-filled eyes toward his solemn face. “What do you truly fear?”

The entire world narrowed down, until there was no more Dale, no more looming Erebor, no more Jarvi or dwarflings, no more whimsical bed-time fables. There was just the deep inkwell of Etsijä’s knowing eyes - as sharp, as wise, as fierce a smoky-furred marten. Tears collected hot in the corners of Kivi’s blue eyes and blurred the harshness of the reality around her. The piercing, stygian gaze of the Man crouched beside her, suddenly reflected the abysmal despair that had steadily fractured her sense of self in all the years since falling unconscious beneath the power of Synkkä’s hand.

“I fear my soul’s been broken, Etsijä, and that it will never be whole again,” her voice, raw and harsh from her tightly suppressed emotions, scraped across the darkness between them. “I fear I can never be my mother’s daughter.”

“The soul is like water,” Etsijä’s voice settled over Kivi like a fire-warmed blanket, heavy and comforting. “When it is strong, it is like ice. But, ice will break, if it is tested before it is ready. Your soul was tested too young,” there was a genuine sadness in the hunter’s voice. “It broke into many pieces. We must find these pieces and we must make them soft, like water, so that they can come together again and harden, as hale and stalwart as the _Jäänmurtaja_ itself.”

“I don’t -” Kivi began to protest, to shake her head in disagreement, but firm hands reached out and grasped her chin between unwavering fingers.

“The bones have spoken. It is time.”

“How?” her whisper was barely more than a tear-choked prayer.

Etsijä’s answer struck against her heart like a hammer to iron and resonated through her trembling body as if the ground beneath her shook.

“You must go beneath the Earth, Kivi. You must go to a place where water and fire can cleanse you, can make you soft. And there, you must roar.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Avari - the "proper" name for the Ice Elves of the Northern Wastes.


	15. Shadow Journey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Kivi sees three possible futures...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There be some smexiness in this chapter and a brief description of violence (the two not related) but nothing uber graphic. Just a head's up.

“ _All eyes on the hidden door,  
To the Lonely Mountain borne.”_

“ **Song of the Lonely Mountain”**

**Neil Finn**

* * *

**Adadnurt (Ad) 'Afkalm 29th**

_(Wednesday April 28th)_

_**Dale** _

* * *

 

 

Heat rose up within her, from her belly, and out toward all of her extremities. Kivi sat cross-legged in front of her home fire, which Etsijä had stoked to a crackling awareness that leaped and shimmered hypnotically. From the battered, but beautifully carved chest at the foot of Kivi’s bed, the hunter had pulled the heavy hide of a _losrandir_ that had been given to the young heir at her Naming, eight days after her birth. It had been a gift from Etsijä’s own father, Keihäs, who had seen, in a vision, the future chieftain riding one of the great horned beasts: _“into battle, both roaring with pride and fury.”_

The pelt was one of Kivi’s very few personal treasures that had made it out of Kivi Torni after the Harrowing. They were all contained within her birch chest, locked safely away except for times like this. She had not dared to open her chest, or pull any of her secret hoard, in all the years since Viljo had so proudly brought it to her, mere days after her dangerous rescue from Synkkä’s clutches.

She had protested the opening of her chest, but Etsijä had stood firm on the matter. And so, Kivi found herself finishing up the last of a spicy tea, made of the fiery, yellow-orange manjal root, covered completely from the neck, down, in the stifling weight of the hide. The tea was bitter and tasted rather unpleasantly of pepper, but dark eyes watched hawkishly until each drop was drained. Kivi squirmed, just a bit, as sweat began to bead along the top of her lip and roll slowly down the small of her back.

She was naked beneath the pelt and though she had first protested that state of affairs, she was now quite thankful for it. The manjal would raise her temperature, Etsijä had calmly informed her; the heat and the sweat would help alter her perception, though she was instructed to focus as best she could on the flicker of the flames and the deep rolling beat of the shaman's hand-held drum.

Kivi was unwilling, but she focused as she was told and in retrospect, she would find herself amazed at how quickly she was actually able to slip into the waking trance that Etsijä had described. Her body stiffened and reality slipped away, as her sight grew hazy and the light of the fire blurred together.

“Tell me what you see, child,” she heard Etsijä’s voice, but it was distant, as if he were speaking from the bottom of a mountain’s deep ravine.

 _Words will make this real_ , he had told her, while mixing her tea. _You must bring what you see into this world, so that new hopes can take form._

Kivi took a deep breath...and as her tears mixed with her sweat, she finally began to speak of things that had been, that were, and that she couldn’t dare believe.

* * *

 

_Wide, ice-blue eyes stared at her reflection in shock. She was sitting on a low, padded stool, covered in layers of deliciously heavy cloth. Kivi blinked and took in the full reality of her appearance, as it was reflected back at her in the floor-length mirror she instantly recognized as her mother’s. The one that hid the secret passage from the base of Kivi-Torni’s tower, to the top of the very room in which her mother died._

_Confused, Kivi could only sit and gape. She wore a dress - a rare thing, indeed - and it was quite possibly the most gorgeous thing she had ever had draped across the curves of her body. Her upper torso was hugged in a half-dress of deep maroon brocade. The sleeves were snug from her shoulders to her elbows, where they were gathered tight by thick ribbons of the softest, dark-brown mink fur. That same fur edged the scoop of her modest neckline and the curve of the half-dress’ hem, which parted at her navel and swept low across her hips to meet again behind her, just above her knees. Amber-colored ribbon edged her long bell sleeves, the bottoms of which pooled delicately on the stone floor at her feet, all but lost in the swathes of sapphire-blue cloth that flowed over her thighs and legs._

_From the edge of her neckline, in equal width down her torso, and then along the fur-lined edge of her half-dress, was a wide, intricate trim of exquisite craftsmanship. Against a field of palest gold, were embroidered, interconnected squares in silver thread. Also connecting each quarter-turned square was the intricate, angular weave of Kivi’s own sigil, painstakingly stitched in shimmering silver. This particular pattern dominated the entire edge of her top-dress, which was almost heavy enough to be considered a type of coat._

_Draped around her waist was a delicate chain of the finest claret gold, which met at her navel in a large, irregularly-shaped amber stone, which was polished, but barely shaped. It added a sense of wildness to her ensemble, a subtle hint at the untamed heart that beat beneath her brocade._

_Flowing out from beneath her top-dress was a rich drape of darkest blue, edged in the same gold ribbon as the rest of her dress. Like curtains, the sapphire silk framed a paler blue swath that was, itself, embroidered with alternating swirls of gold and silver. It was all gorgeous, more beautiful than anything Kivi had worn before in the whole of her brief life._

“Your mother dreamed of this day,” _hands appeared with a familiar tenor voice that brought tears instantly to Kivi’s kohl-rimmed eyes._

_Oskari peered at her reflection in the mirror and Kivi didn’t dare turn her head to see if he was standing behind her in the flesh. Something told her that he wasn’t, that this was all a dream...yet still, her heart leaped at the familiar face of her scarlet-haired father. Deep-set, tawny eyes smiled fondly at her from the mirror, as weathered fingers reached up to softly brush across the braided crown that graced the circumference of Kivi’s head._

_The braid was a thick one - all of Kivi’s hair had been gathered and woven around her skull. Threaded into her “crown” were smaller, thinner braids - warrior braids, in the style of Thulin’s kin. Each of the smaller braids had been carefully decorated with smooth bone beads, aglets of polished wood, and tiny chips of precious stones. Her hair, combed and oiled until it gleamed, glittered with even the smallest movement of neck or body._

“You wear the Chief's Braid well, _tyttäreni_ , as I knew you would.” _[“My daughter”]_

_Kivi’s eyes fluttered shut against her tears, as her father’s hand - impossibly warm and real - lingered tenderly against her hair._

“But, you wear your Warrior’s Braids with even greater beauty. You will rule our people well.”

“But...Isä,” _Kivi all but whispered into the gentle darkness that began to surround them._ “I don’t know how to fight; I don’t know how to rule.”

“Oh, my child,” _Oskari’s voice was a ghost, an echo in the stillness._ “The sapphire and silver you wear tells me differently.”

* * *

 

_The firelight was soft, the hearth all but embers in the darkness. Kivi blinked, disoriented by the sudden light, by the change in her surroundings. Gone was her mother’s mirror, her father’s bushy beard, her sumptuous gown._

_Now, she was naked, her legs curled beneath her as she rested her weight on one wide-spread palm. Thick fur - like that of a wolf, or a bear - tickled her fire-tinted skin and Kivi’s lips pursed in a soft “o” of exclamation. She glanced around her, but she could see nothing in the darkness - although to her far left, she could feel the faint breeze of a cool night wind and glimpse the softer shades of a midnight sky from beyond an opened window._

_Her hair was unbound, except for one braid that fell down against her left breast. Kivi turned her attention toward it, but before she could examine it closely, her eyes caught sight of the golden hoop threaded through her nipple. Her breath stopped and her heart began to pound - she had been forced to bear such piercings once before and for one harrowing moment, she thought she had slipped into a memory of that time. But, then she remembered - Synkkä had pierced her with bone and polished wood. In the North, jewelry of such a sort, that lay intimately against the skin, was rarely jewel or metal, for fear that it would burn the skin if exposed to the freezing night winds that blew almost all year long. She had never worn hoops of gold and curiosity got the better of her._

_Cautiously, her breath barely a stutter, Kivi reached her free hand up and tugged ever-so-softly at the ring that hung from her lightly puckered nipple. The gold was cool, but not freezing, and it slid sensuously between the rough pads of her fingertips. The very apex of the circle was delicately tipped with a shimmering ruby bead, that flashed like a perfect drop of wine against her flushed skin._

_She was betrothed - to a man of great wealth and power. Color rose high in her cheeks at this realization and her fingers dipped lower across the bare expanse of her body. A blue stone, as pale as her eyes, twinkled from the hollow of her navel; connected to it was a slender silver chain, which draped sensuously across the swell of her hips. A thought suddenly occurred to her and her blush began to spread down her neck and across the tops of her breasts. Hesitantly, barely daring to think about what she was doing, Kivi let her eyes fall toward her left hand._

_She was_ married _. A braided band of what looked to be silver and gold winked up at her from within the fur beneath her palm. Kivi’s mind reeled._

_Before she could puzzle the identity of the man who had adorned her body with jewels and precious metals, a hand slipped across her eyes._

“Ah, Kyllikko,” _her true name whispered across her bare shoulder, as a pair of warm lips began to trace the curve of her neck._ “I desire you more than an endless vein of mithril.”

_The voice behind her was new to her - deep enough to growl against her skin, rough with desire, each syllable shaped harsh with lust. But, it was a pleasing voice and the guttural purr of Khuzdul made a shiver run - not unpleasantly - down her spine._

“Oh,” _was all Kivi could manage, distracted as she was by the body behind her and the reaction of her own._

_Lips, tongue, and teeth nipped a fiery path up her neck and along the curve of her beardless jaw. Warmth pressed against her back and her nakedness left little to her imagination. The chest that loomed behind her was broader than her own shoulders and covered in a mat of thick hair that scraped pleasantly against her over-sensitized skin. An arm, well-defined by hardened muscles that slid temptingly against her waist, brushed up against her belly as deft fingers reached for her left nipple. The hand that cupped her breast was large enough to cover her generous bosom, and the fingertips that teased her ring between them were calloused and confident._

_Kivi gasped again, as her nipple hardened in response to the light teasing of ring and weathered skin. The hand across her eyes pressed gently against her forehead and the tops of her cheeks; Kivi whimpered softly in the back of her throat, as she allowed her head to be pulled back against the solid curve of a powerfully-built shoulder. She quivered as a languid pool of pleasure began to settle low in her belly; in spite of all that she had previously learned about the base desires of men, she felt herself soften against the firm body behind her._

_He - surely her mysterious husband - moaned in response to her gentle curves pressing ever so slowly into his angular planes. The sound of his approval made Kivi’s uncertainty melt even further into the heat and hardness that enveloped her. The hands that touched her, that smoothed over her skin, that played so gently with her, made her feel strangely safe, despite her vulnerable state._

_She had never been given gentleness and to Kivi’s boundless amazement, she felt herself reveling in the pleasure his fingers left in their wake. She didn’t even put up a fight, when one large hand curled around one soft thigh and pulled her leg up and over a thick-boned hip. The change in position forced her to shift her weight and settle her torso against him; Kivi allowed her body to trust in its unknown lover and sheer bliss sighed from between her lips as she was so intimately exposed._

_She was pierced with gold and jewels, words of adoration muttered against her skin like the softest bindings. Clearly, she was treasured and clearly her husband took her desire for him as a matter of fact._

_As her body settled against him and as her face was turned toward his, a warm weight settled against her lips. Kivi finally turned in full against her husband and twisted her body until her torso was flush against his. Never had she been kissed so gently, so passionately - always before, if she was indeed forced to accept one of Synkkä's hated kisses, it was a brutal, plundering thing. This...this coaxed her eyes to close of their own accord and her arms to slip beneath thick arms, to wrap around an equally burly back. The hand that had been covering her eyes now moved to the back of her neck; fingers caught on tangles in her hair, as her own hands buried themselves in a long mane of equally tousled strands._

_A tongue touched her lips, as a nose pressed earnestly against her own. Uncertain, unbidden, Kivi parted her lips in surrender and the taste of him stirred a lust she didn’t know she had. His tongue carried with it the memory of sweet red wine and tart fruit. Uncertain, inexperienced, Kivi tentatively touched her tongue against his - and a spark of passion exploded between them, pressing both their bodies flush against the fur beneath them._

_She had never returned a kiss before, she had never moved her body of her own accord, she had never before been coaxed to seek pleasure for her own sake. A fire from deep within her stirred Kivi’s blood to a boil and she abandoned herself to the heady taste of his mouth, to the heady feel of his burly body, to the heady sound of his breath harsh against her lips._

_The kiss began to break apart and Kivi found her eyes drifting open of their own accord. She murmured softly in protest, at the gradual departure of his lips against hers. But, before her lashes could lift up from against the top of her cheeks, her husband grabbed her around the waist and effortlessly rolled her over onto her stomach. Without giving her any time to think, or to react, or to look behind her shoulder, he swept her long hair forward, away from her neck, and began to nip playfully along the strong line of her spine._

_As he kissed a lingering line down the length of her body, his right hand blazed a trail of fire along the curves of her breasts, her waist, her thighs. Kivi groaned deeply and settled against the luxurious pelt beneath her; her eyes drooped in lazy pleasure as he dug his thumb in shallow, leisurely circles in the dimple where her bottom met her thigh. His tongue lingered in the small of her back and Kivi couldn’t suppress a sigh of delight at the way his hair slid across her skin._

_He took his time, rubbing and kissing the lingering tension from her body. As he began to work his way back up along her spine, toward the arch of her neck, Kivi felt one of his large hands settle just in front of her face, to brace his weight as he moved across the length of her. Her eyes drifted open and she peered thoughtfully at the hand that helped bring her so much pleasure._

_His fingers were thick, lightly scarred across a knuckle or two; they were not heavily weathered, though. His was not the hand of a blacksmith, cracked and beaten like Seppä’s, from the forge. It was nimble, dexterous, his nails neatly trimmed and whole. His was the hand of a craftsman - calloused, but not at the expense of losing the subtleties of touch. There was a silver ring on his thumb, a gold one on his forefinger, a white shining one - mithril, then - on his middle finger. And on his ring finger was a band, thicker than hers, but the same, a braid of all three precious metals. In closer proximity, Kivi could see that there were runes inscribed on each of the woven bands._

_“I am my Beloved’s,” she read, as he dragged the tip of her right ear between his teeth and a soft moan from her throat. “And my Beloved is mine.”_

“Beloved,” _she murmured in something akin to awe._

_Such a word she would have never dared to dream of whispering to a man - a dwarven man. But here she was, the word falling effortlessly from her lips, the taste of him still lingering on her tongue, the desire to taste him again stirring up within her as his beard rubbed sensuously against her turned cheek._

_Dark hair fell over her shoulder and mingled wantonly with her own fiery locks. Kivi felt her eyes drift close, pleasantly overwhelmed as she was by the warmth and weight of him._

“You complete me,” _he all but hummed against the side of her throat. “_ My heart of the Mountain.”

* * *

 

_The crystalline reflection of sunlight against snow blinded Kivi for several heart-thundering moments. Gone was the warmth and the intimacy of her marriage bed, gone were the husky vows of love. The scent of blood and carrion filled her nose now, carried sharply against her face by a biting Northern wind._

_Kivi knew where she was long before her eyes finally adjusted to the midday light. She was back on the Pillaged Fields, Kivi-Torni towering above the copses and thickets beyond. Something moved restlessly beneath her and she nearly lost her balance before she realized that she was sitting in the familiar side-saddle of her beloved mount - Kaksoissisko, the female losrandir that had been born in the same hour as Kivi, so many years before._

_She knew this intuitively - knew instinctively the way that Sisko moved, the way she pawed at the ground, the way she snorted and swung her heavy-horned head to-and-fro. The snow-blindness cleared and Kivi saw carnage spread across the wide-open plain before her. A broken howl of misery turned her attention sharply to the right, just a few yards ahead of her and her eyes grew wide in horror._

_It was Etsijä, as she had never seen him before. He was dressed in fur and hardened leather, dressed for war with a bloodied spear thrown into the mud-churned slush at his side. He was on his knees, his body flung back against his heels as he hugged a limp, eviscerated body against him. Pale, glassy eyes met Kivi’s desperate gaze and she abruptly shoved her gloved fist against her mouth, to stifle the cry that threatened to fall from between her lips._

_She had met the woman, now dead in Etsijä’s arms, when they were both much younger. It was Aurinko, Etsijä’s only daughter, treasured by her people. Aurinko could not see with her eyes, but she could See that which was invisible and unknowable to others. She was a Seer, a rare and precious embodiment of wisdom and magic among the Lossoth. Aurinko had been brought to attend Viljo’s coming-of-age ceremony, when he was finally recognized as an adult dwarf and a High Son of Thulin, future Elder Brother to their future Äiti. Aurinko had come with Etsijä - and the other Lossoth chiefs - to bless Viljo and to share a glimpse of what lay before him as a leader of the North._

_What Aurinko had been doing on the battlefield, Kivi couldn’t fathom, but a sword shimmered in the bloodied snow near Etsijä’s knees and Aurinko’s lifeless hand hung limply out toward the polished hilt. Kivi’s eyes swept across the Fields and there she saw Stiffbeard, Avari, and Lossoth bodies staining the earth a frozen, sickly red. The bodies were many...and yet, far fewer than Kivi would have expected for a stand against the Ironfists’ might. Her heart clenched tight in dismay as she realized that Aurinko had taken to the field in desperation and in loyalty - the number of those who remained to rebel had been winnowed throughout the years. It would take every hand in the North, no matter their ability or lack thereof, to strike a fatal blow against their oppressors._

_Etsijä’s keening echoed eerily across the desecrated plain and tears threatened to freeze against Kivi’s lashes as she watched him rock back and forth in agony. She had never seen such emotion in her friend, but now she understood just how deeply Etsijä had loved his only child. Now, she suddenly - viscerally - understood the sacrifice he had made in leaving Aurinko behind to an undetermined fate, in order to find_ her _and bring her back to free the North._

_And how had she had repaid him? Kivi gripped Sisko a little too tightly in her sudden flash of self-hatred; the losrandir snorted and tossed her noble head. Snow fell in little flurries from her thick, branching horns and Kivi dropped the reins down across S-isko’s muscular neck. Etsijä continued to wail, his grief knowing no bounds, and the rise and fall of his pain struck hard against Kivi’s heart. Without another thought, without a pause to consider things through, Kivi jumped nimbly down from Sisko’s back and landed sure-footed in the deep bank of snow beneath them. Without a blink, without a pause, she reached up and freed the Jäänmurtaja from the straps on Sisko’s side._

“Synkkä!” _she roared above the shriek of the Lossoth’s mourning._ “Synkkä! Show your face, you sniveling _pelkuri!_ ” _[“Coward”]_

_She lifted a thick, fur-wrapped boot up against the snow…_

_And set it down, hard, against a floor of solid gold. Kivi would have paused - instinct told her to pause - but a narrow-shouldered and hooded figure limped abruptly out of the sudden shadows. A crooked smile of mostly-missing-or-uneven-teeth flashed beneath the hood and a curved blade whirled lazily in the air at the Ironfists’ side._

“I am a guest of this court, _Wife_ ,” _he sneered, emphasizing that one word she hated above all others._ “Would you defy me so openly?”

_He stepped forward a little further into the light and Kivi fully noticed his unmistakable limp. A sharp smile curved the corners of her own lips and she bared her teeth at her former tormentor, as she lifted Jäänmurtaja to the ready before her._

“My _name_ is **Kivi Äiti** , daughter of Taavi, High Daughter of Thulin, Chieftain of the North,” _she shouted, her voice strong and certain, her chin held high and her back rigid with pride._ “It is time you paid for your crimes against us, Kinslayer!” [ _“Stone Mother”_ ]

* * *

 

Kivi came back to herself, to her body, to her own time, with a slow and heavy awakening. She was lying down now, still covered in her _losrandir_ pelt; her body was wrung dry and soaked beneath the heavy fur. Her hair was a collection of limp and bedraggled tangles across the pillow that had been placed beneath her head. A hand appeared with a dipper and Kivi didn’t care how low the pelt fell across her body, as she struggled to her elbows.

“Easy, _serkku_ ,” Jarvi murmured; his face slowly swam into focus and Kivi wrapped shaking fingers around the steady strength of his thick wrist. “You’ve had quite an experience.”

“Etsijä?” she gasped, her voice raw and parched, despite the mouthful of water she managed to swallow.

“I am here,” the Lossoth’s voice was a soothing rumble in the darkness.

He appeared at Jarvi’s side, his weathered face etched with concern as he bent over Kivi’s prone form. She reached for him and grasped his hand desperately the instant their fingers made contact with one another.

“I’m sorry,” she croaked; what little moisture she had left dampened the corners of her dry, itchy eyes. “I’m so sorry, Etsijä. I have waited too long.”

“You have seen only a vision, a single possibility of the future that could come to us all,” the Lossoth wrapped his hands around hers and squeezed them kindly, like a father would, in wordless support.

“I have waited too long,” Kivi insisted, shaking her head weakly, but stubbornly.

“So what would you do, to change what you have seen?” Etsijä demanded solemnly.

For the first time, finally, Kivi answered without hesitation.

“I will go under the Mountain,” her voice cracked, but her words were as firm as the foundations of Erebor itself. “I will do what I must to forge an alliance with Durin’s Sons - no matter what Thorinkin asks of me.”

“Kivi -” Jarvi began to gently protest, but her eyes flashed blue like the northern lights and her jaw tightened in steadfast resolution.

“I _must_ , Elder Brother,” Kivi captured Jarvi’s gaze with her own and the silence grew heavy with the gravity of her oath. “The Ironfists must pay for what they have done.”

Tears welled as she bowed her head over Etsijä’s hands, as she touched her forehead solemnly to his worn knuckles.

“No one else will die because of my fear. May Mahal’s Hammer fall upon me if I break this oath - _no one else_.”

 


	16. When The Bough Breaks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Kíli and Kivi meet again...

“ _We'll ride in the gathering storm  
Until we get our long-forgotten gold.”_

“ **Song of the Lonely Mountain”**

**Neil Finn**

* * *

 

**Thanbnurt (Thn) 'Afkalm 30th**

_(Thursday, April 29th)_

_**Erebor** _

* * *

 

A fond smile lifted the corners of Dís’s full lips, as she slipped quietly through the arched doorway of her son’s atelier. The King of Erebor had his left cheek propped on top of his bare forearms and his mouth was slightly ajar. He breathed deeply in his sleep, but didn’t snore; Dís paused just inside of the entryway and her fingers lingered casually against the smooth-hewn stone of the arch curving high above her.

Memories of kinder days flowed through her mind, as her mother’s gaze lingered lovingly on the thick waves of long, unbound brown hair that fell over her youngest son’s shoulders. A stray tendril had fallen against his lips; it fluttered back and forth with each steady breath. Many times before, Dís had happened upon Kíli in a similar pose - the young dwarf had a well-established reputation for being able to fall fast asleep just about anywhere. That apparently hadn’t changed with his rank within the world, although the corners of his mother’s eyes grew moist at the thought that always before, she had found Kíli propped up against his brother’s shoulder.

From the day of Kíli’s birth, he and Fíli had been inseparable. Despite the tears Kíli had shed with her, just nights before, Dís knew that it would take a lifetime for her last remaining son to completely heal from the loss of his older brother. In truth, she knew that he never really would - Fíli’s death had left a hole in Kíli’s soul that could never truly be filled. It could only be accepted as a wound as enduring as the injury done to his leg; the emptiness that Fíli had left behind simply _was_ , a fact of life that Kíli would have to learn to wholly accept, in order to move forward.

This, Dís knew as certainly as she knew her own losses and wounds - never a day went by, when she did not long for Frerin, or Thorin, or Ríkin, or Thráin, or Fíli. No dwarf in Middle Earth could make whole the aches they had left behind in her heart - this, Dís accepted in her own way, though it made the loss of those she loved no less painful. Acceptance of the mark they left on her simply made it easier for her to wake up each morning and dedicate herself to seeing her last remaining child through the worst of his own grief.

Kíli mumbled something indistinct in his sleep, which drew Dís out of her own pensive thought. With a soft sigh and a wistful shake of her head, the Princess let her fingers slide away from the archway stone, as she stepped fully forward into the hazy, blue-tinged light of the jeweler’s chamber.

The sky outside of the enormous span of windows was a murky indigo that paled to a clearer strip of teal along the distant horizon. Thick clouds had rolled over the mountain’s crags and crests during the night; there would be rain later on in the day. The slowly waking sun was struggling to break its first morning rays through the stormy gloaming, but the best it could do was to tinge the atmosphere with a watery light that washed everything in tones of cobalt and slate.

“ _Dashat_ ,” Dís called softly, as she stopped just out of arm’s reach of her sleeping king. [ _“Son”_ ]

Almost two centuries of a life lived with battle-tested warriors had taught her that touching a sleeping dwarf who had seen his fair share of war, was a foolhardy idea. With Frerin and Thorin, she had learned to pick up the nearest seat cushion and throw it at their heads - which, in their youth, had resulted in her brothers’ loud expletives and half-baked attempts to grab her before she could dart, laughing, through their chamber doorways. Ríkin had taught her that it was a little kinder - and perhaps, a bit more mature - to stand at the bottom of the bed and shake a foot. Of course, Thorin still came up swinging most of the time and Ríkin, too, every so often, but that was usually accompanied by a lot less swearing and running.

Except, of course, when Ríkin was feeling frisky. Dís had always loved sending him on a merry chase, before finally allowing herself to be caught and dragged - laughing, sighing, and kissing - back into the warm hollow of their blankets.

But, there was no seat cushion to toss at Kíli’s slumbering head and his feet were inconveniently tucked beneath him, hooked around the front legs of his stool. So - knowing that, for all of his ability to fall asleep while even standing up, Kíli was more often than not a light sleeper - Dís called calmly to him, raising her voice only to be heard over his incoherent muttering.

“Kíli,” she called again, suspecting that he might respond more readily to his name.

Sure enough, his breathing hitched, which was a sure sign that he had heard her through his sleepy haze. Dís smiled patiently to herself, as the dark-haired Thane before her grumbled something quite inappropriate beneath his breath and squeezed his eyes tight, so that his brow furrowed in discontent.

“It’s time to wake up, _dashat_.”

“No, s’not,” Kíli’s voice was deep and rough, and his words were so hoarse, that they were almost lost within the wild tangle of his hair. “Not light.”

“There’s a storm moving in,” Dís moved calmly behind the bent form of her son, as she reached for the oil lamp that was sitting, unlit, on the far edge of his workman’s table. “And the Mountain is already stirring, in preparation of your official visit with Master Bard in Dale today.”

Her words were as brisk as her hands, which deftly struck two pieces of flint together and ignited the crystal-crafted lamp’s oil-soaked wick. Her tone, however, was measured and mellow; after seventy-eight years’ worth of mornings, she knew that her youngest son - much like his more dourly uncle - was not particularly agreeable to the concept of “rise and shine”. Urging him to “hurry up” would result only in an argument and a mule-ish resistance.

“Ugh!” Kíli grumbled irritably, as the lamp’s bright light (amplified by the chamber’s darkness and the faceted face of its crystal shade) abruptly illuminated the side of his sleep-flushed face.

He finally moved - but only to lift his uppermost arm, upon which his cheek had been resting, and press the underside of his forearm against his eyes. Dís simply laughed and stepped closer toward him, so that she could ruffle his hair. As she leaned ever so slightly over his hunched shoulders, her eyes lingered on the chaotic spread of detritus that bore silent witness to the completion of Kíli’s task. The Princess’ dark eyebrows rose high toward her thick hairline, as her eyes followed the trail of metal scraps and tools toward the finished product.

“ _Thanu men_ ,” she murmured in breathless amazement, as her eyes widened to take in the overwhelming elegance of the necklace that lay in delicate loops of blushing gold chain across the length of the slightly scarred tabletop. “You haven’t slept at all, have you?”

“No,” Kíli lifted his head with obvious reluctance; his dark eyes blinked blearily in an attempt to identify what it was that had stolen away his mother’s breath.

The lamp-light stirred the wine-colored rubies into a blaze that flickered deep within them with all the rhythm of a beating heart. Their brilliance caught Kíli’s yawning focus; he slowly lifted his head and pushed the weight of his upper torso off of the table with bared arms that tightened, then stretched. With another stifled groan, he reached up and rubbed the back of his right hand across his eyes.

“I’m done, though,” the young king didn’t even bother hiding his jaw-popping yawn. “Mostly. I made it in sections. Nali said she would bring me a seamstress’ doll tonight, so I could put each section together and check the sizing against the general dimensions of a dwarrow-maid.”

“Your fingers are as fast and as sure as your arrows,” Dís shook her head slightly in wonder, as her skilled artisan’s eyes lingered over every detailed jewel and polished chain link. “Your skill leaves me to wonder if there is a Blacklock among your father’s ancient kin,” she chuckled softly and squeezed Kíli’s shoulder gently.

“I think you judge with a mother’s grace,” the younger dwarf huffed softly, but his chest swelled all the same in response to Dís’ pride.

“Perhaps so,” Dís murmured against the crown of his head, as she leaned down to kiss him fondly. “But, truly, Kíli, your _Gargbuzrâmrâg_ gift is as stunning as anything your father brought back from from our Eastern cousins.”

“Hmm,” Kíli - who was still partially asleep, for all of his talking - reached up to rake fingers, now reddened by newly forming calluses, through his long bangs.

He considered first the meticulous rows of the body-necklace’s finished sections and then the wan light beyond the chamber window. The world had brightened only by a marginal measure; rain-swollen clouds now filtered the hidden sunlight through a lackluster veil of periwinkle. Something seemed to come to him, then, and the full attention of Erebor’s King turned to consider his mother’s clever eyes.

“You know what this is?” he broke their gaze only to glance at the necklace laid out in front of them; he then quickly turned back toward Dís.

“As canny as any raven, you are, _Thanu men_ ,” Dís tossed her head back in a hearty laugh and her hair gleamed in the lamplight like polished jet. “Yes,” her eyes twinkled as she met her son’s mildly sour gaze. “Nali told me.”

“Then I was right,” Kíli’s mouth dropped into a disapproving scowl. “You summoned her to Erebor to spy on me.”

“Nonsense,” his mother snorted with ill-disguised mirth, as she saucily perched both hands on the curves of her hips. “To keep you company, _Thanu men_ , and to give you good counsel, though - yes. For that, I asked her to return to the halls of Durin.”

Another snappy response seemed to evade Kíli, so he settled for piercing his mother with one final, withering glare, before gathering his feet beneath him. He stood up with a loud groan and for a long moment, he remained bent over, with his hands pressed flat against the cool top of his table. After two deep breaths, though, the young king gingerly stretched his back and rolled his neck until it popped.

“Think I’m getting too old to sleep like that,” he winced, rubbed a hand against the back of his neck, and yawned one last time.

“Thankfully, you didn’t sleep too long in that position,” Dís grabbed the lamp’s handle and lifted it gracefully up and off of the table. “Dwalin took over the guard from young Gimli around midnight or so. He said you were probably too consumed by your work to even notice,” she explained with a playful wink.

Kíli just grunted - it was not at all uncommon for a dwarf, in the throes of creation, to become completely unaware of his, or her, surroundings. It was one reason why the _Khazâd_ rarely, if ever, crafted outside the safety of their earth-bound halls.

“He said you fell asleep sometime around the third hour,” the Princess put her free hand on her son’s shoulder and gently nudged him toward the chamber doorway. “You’ve only been asleep for three, maybe four, hours.”

“So my body tells me,” Kíli grimaced as he stepped forward and felt the knee of his “compromised leg” wobble dangerously under the settling of his weight.

“The rain will not help, either,” Dís knew better than to reach out and steady him, but she hovered protectively at his side all the same, wary maternal eyes sweeping over her son’s body from head to boot. “Both of your uncles used to whimper and growl at me any time the air was wet, or cold. Or,” she shrugged with a small smile. “Both.”

To her surprise, Kíli reached out abruptly and grabbed her bicep, just above her elbow. Dís’s heart clenched in sympathetic pain, as her son’s face turned paler with each consecutive step. She made no indication, however, that she was shocked by his silent demand for help; instead, she carefully schooled her features into a mask of graceful calm, as if helping her Thane to keep his balance was an act of no particular importance. The further they walked, the steadier his pace became; by the time they reached the atelier's heavy doors, Kíli had let go of her arm.

He stayed close by her, though, as he once did as a dwarfling, within quick reach of her skirts or pants leg. And, even from out of the corner of her eye, his limp was unmistakable; she glanced once at his face as they moved slowly into the now-shadowed Halls of Light and saw that even though his own royal mask was well in place, thin lines had appeared at the corners of his mouth. His jaw was stiff, too, and with every other step or so, his chest fell heavily, as if to push the pain out with his breath.

Dís couldn't bear it. The Halls were empty, since servants could only intrude on the privacy of the Royal Family at certain times, for certain reasons. So, there was no one to see, as the Princess of Erebor turned sharply to stand in front of her king and pull him forward against her breast in a fierce, protective embrace.

She had expected Kíli to resist, but he didn’t. He simply bowed his head - now, as an adult, standing several inches taller than his mother - and buried his face in the comforting warmth of her neck. He said nothing, but Dís had to widen her stance ever so slightly, in order to bear the solid weight of her son as he leaned heavily into her.

“You have time to go sit in the hot springs for a little bit,” she murmured lovingly against the curve of his tousled head. “It will do you some good. I will have Ori bring you an ointment for your leg, before you dress.”

“Have Bofur do it,” Kíli’s voice was husky from his pain and almost too muffled by her shoulder for Dís to hear. “He always makes me laugh.”

“Very well,” Dís sighed heavily; her heart all but threatened to break. “And promise me that you will ride Skafidur to Dale today. There is no need for you to suffer before friends.”

“Dwalin should ready him, then,” once again, Kíli offered no resistance, as he lifted his head and slowly stepped out of his mother’s arms; his lips twisted up in the sad parody of a smile, too laced with pain to be truly genuine. “He’s got the same temperament as that old goat, so Skaf doesn’t usually act out around him.”

“As you wish, _Thanu men_ ,” Dís murmured gently, with a brief curtsy and nod of her head.

She stood and watched, though, until her son disappeared around the far corner of the long Hall, and until her own tears abated. It sometimes seemed to her as if the Raven Crown brought with it naught but blood, sorrow, and pain - all the things that she had never wanted for either of her sons, and the very three things she had so vainly hoped would never be known by her youngest.

* * *

_**Dale** _

* * *

 

  
“ _Täti_! _Täti_!”

A chorus of excited voices and pattering feet startled Kivi, who had her back to the door of her humble home. Katrikki clucked her tongue impatiently, as the dwarf-maid in front of her instinctively jerked her head toward the sound of pattering feet.

“Kivi!” the Ice Elf’s tone was sharp, as she just barely managed to keep the thick strands of the chieftain’s braid between her nimble fingers. “You’re as bad as Keri! For the love of Oromë, sit still.”

“Ow!” Kivi grumbled under her breath as her friend abruptly tugged on her long lock of hair. “You needn’t be so rough. They simply startled me.”

“You’ve been squirming around all morning,” Katrikki insisted hotly in a low tone. “If you would just sit still, I’d be done with this that much sooner.”

“ _Täti_!” the dwarflings, oblivious to the whispered exchange between both adults, tumbled through the doorway in unison.

“Yes, my little ones,” Kivi greeted them patiently, as she reluctantly submitted to Katrikki’s sensible wishes. “Come over here, so I can see you.”

She held her head carefully, straight and forward-facing toward the smoldering hearth. There was a minor scuffle from behind her and then a breathless disarray as the twins tried to briefly compete with one another. Keri won, it would seem, as she was the first to pop up into Kivi’s line of sight, her wheat-colored hair a wild mess and her nose streaked with a smudge of dirt. Her eyes were wide and bright, though - a dancing, mischievous green against the freckled pale of her face.

“King Kíli is coming to town today!” the young dwarf-maid all but bounced on the balls of her feet.

“He’s bringing a present to Master Bard, in honor of Gazramblarag!” Kal - not to be outdone - slid into view next to his sister, his own face as bright and winsome as hers.

“ _Gargbuzrâmrâg_!” Keri corrected him almost instinctively; Kal just smirked and rolled his shoulders, his only admission that he’d even heard his sister’s prim admonition.

“So I’ve heard,” Kivi couldn’t help a soft chuckle at her two exuberant charges.

“He’s on his way right now!” Keri bounced again in her enthusiasm, cutting her aunt off before she could say anything else.

“We saw the procession from the top of the northern wall!” Kal added, his words barely a breath behind Keri’s. “With Sigrid and Tilda!”

Kivi opened her mouth to speak again, but Keri beat her too it.

“May we go and watch King Kíli ride through town?”

The hopeful, pink-cheeked face that gazed earnestly up at Kivi was hard to deny. Even Katrikki seemed affected, as Kivi could feel her friend’s hands shake ever so slightly in a silent laugh, as she continued weaving the dwarf-maid’s hair in a long braid around her forehead.

“Where is  _Setä_ Jarvi?” Kivi lifted a quick hand to stop Kal before he could blurt out the words so clearly dancing on the tip of his tongue. [ _“Uncle”_ ]

At the question, the twins seemed to sense the turn of the conversation and some of the excitement in their faces dimmed.

“Master Bard asked _Setä_ to help him greet the King and his court,” Keri reluctantly shuffled one bare, dirt-stained foot over the smooth wooden slats beneath her toes. “ _Mestari_ Seppä is helping, too.”

The little dwarrow-maid, keen as her aunt or grandmother ever was, wrinkled her nose and peered thoughtfully up at Katrikki. Keri didn't need to be explicitly told that she wasn't going anywhere near the Erebor retinue without an accompanying adult. She sighed heavily and looked as if she was going to stomp her foot in frustration, when her bright eyes lit up hopefully.

“Would _Mestari_ Etsijä go with us?”

Kivi bit the inside of her lip, to keep her amusement in check. The excitement of her two charges was palpable and it was almost too difficult to shoot their high hopes down. However, Kivi had lived with the little rapscallions for over half of a century and they, were after all, blood of her blood. If an adult didn't watch their every move, the twins would surely get themselves into mischief. And mischief was the one thing Kivi was hoping to avoid that day – while she couldn't _possibly_ imagine what sort of incident Keri and Kal could cause, she _could_ imagine that an incident of some sort was all but assured if they were allowed to watch the Erebor procession on their own.

Today, of all days, Kivi needed King Kíli in a good mood. Most importantly, she needed _herself_ to be in a good mood – and fixing any misadventures would not put her mood in good standing for the delicate negotiations she anticipated when she finally gathered the courage to approach Thorinkin for a second time.

“ _Mestari_ Etsijä returned to the _erämaassa_ this morning,” Kivi finally reigned in her mirth long enough to break the bad news; Keri's hope all but crumpled and her little, lop-sided smile fell into a disappointed frown. “You know how he is, Inkeri. _Mestari_ Etsijä never stays in town for very long.”

“I know,” Keri sighed as if all the weight of Erebor had suddenly been placed upon her young shoulders; she turned her gaze down to the ground and kicked moodily at a innocent dust bunny laying nearby.

“You two will have to wait until I'm done,” Kivi continued patiently, her tone as placating as she could manage. “Mistress Katrikki and I would like to watch the King's procession as well – go play along the street outside, but go no further than the butcher's shop. We'll be done shortly and then we can _all_ go together.”

“Yes ma'am,” it was Kal who answered, as Keri seemed too far gone into her pouting to respond appropriately.

Kivi lifted a fiery-red eyebrow, as Kal grabbed his sister's hand and dragged her out the door. The look that passed between the twins wasn't lost on either the elder dwarrow-maid or her Avari friend. As the dwarflings' footsteps tumbled out into the cloudy street beyond, Kivi stifled a long-suffering sigh.

"Better make it quick, Katrikki,” the master mason rolled her expressive green eyes up toward the wooden beams above them. ”A silver coin says that we'll be rescuing them from themselves if we're not after them in ten minutes.”

"Agreed.”

Kivi couldn't be sure, but it sounded as if the Ice Elf was trying desperately not to laugh. This time, the dwarrow-maid didn't even try to hide a sigh of exasperation, as she steeled her back and did her best to sit as still as possible. The sooner Katrikki finished her braids, the sooner the two adults could intercept whatever mischief they'd seen brewing in the dwarflings' eyes.

* * *

 

As it turned out, it was _not_ Katrikki nor Kivi who saved Kal and Keri from themselves. Although, as both females had suspected, the twins did indeed disregard their aunt's instructions to stray no further than the butcher's. To his credit, Kal – ever the more cautious of the two – made sure to voice his misgivings.

"I don't think this is a good idea, Keri,” he almost had to shout, in order to make himself heard over the excited throng pressing around them.

"Do you want to see the King or not?” Keri demanded haughtily, one foot already planted firmly in the low juncture of an old ash tree that had clearly seen better days.

"Well...” Kal shifted from one foot to another, as he gazed up at the bare branches of the dying tree and then over at his sister.

"Pfft,” Keri made a rude little sound under her breath and tossed her pale blonde braids with impatience.

Without waiting for her brother's input, she grabbed ahold of one half of the slender trunk that branched cautiously toward the left. The tree itself was so old that no one could now determine if it had been struck in half by lightening ages before, or if it had grown into two distinct and branching halves on its own over the years. Used to the wilds as they were, Keri and Kal had been climbing trees for most of their young lives – much to the dismay of their aunt and to the amusement of the nimble Katrikki, who had taught them how to do so in the first place. However, for all of their years clambering up onto leafy boughs and arching branches, they failed to notice that the solitary ash they had picked for their adventures that afternoon was not the best choice along the crowded street. Only one side of the ash still bore leaves – which, incidentally, was _not_ the side that stretched out over the center thoroughfare.

 _That_ side was barren and mottled over with a mint-green moss that older, wiser eyes would have recognized as a parasitic fungus. Keri took no note of that beneath her fingers, however, and Kal was too preoccupied by his sudden misgivings to notice much of anything beyond his hard-headed sister. No one around them took note of the dwarflings, either – all attention was toward Dale's newly rebuilt walls and center gate, through which the ceremoniously-armored and somberly-dressed folk of Erebor were already marching.

There were other young ones around them, to be sure, but they were all human and carefully watched over by their own human parents; most were carried on sturdy paternal shoulders, so that young, curious eyes could see the drama unfolding, without having to worry about fighting taller siblings or adults for a view. No on spared a glance for two diminutive dwarflings and if they did, no one thought twice about either of them clambering up the nearest tree. All eyes were front-and-center – what Keri and Kal didn't realize, was that the advent of King Kíli at Dale's rebuilt gate was one of the most auspicious occasions to visit the once-great city in ages. No King of Erebor had shared a Deep Ale Fest with his human neighbors since the days of Kíli's grandfather, since the days of Smaug and the fires beneath the Mountain.

It was a day of healing, of joy, of friendships renewed. It was a day for history's sake, so no one noticed as Keri inched toward along the branch high above the crowd's collective heads and even she didn't hear the ominous crack that made the trunk below her shudder. Like every other eye below her, hers were fixed – wide and bright with excitement – toward the glistening golden crown and carefully groomed brown head that rose above the helmets and spears around him.

No one noticed as fat raindrops dripped slowly from the swollen clouds up above – a spark of lightening lit the air across the city and even the threatening storm didn't dim the enthusiasm of Dale. Cheers challenged the low growl of thunder and Keri – who had been slithering along the diseased branch practically on her belly – rose up sharply and leaned forward in order to catch a glimpse of Kíli as he rode by on his strange mount.

The dwarfling's eyes grew wide – she had never seen a dwarven war-mount before and her lips formed a perfect ”o” of surprise as she took in Skafidur's prancing hooves, merrily jingling reigns, and polished horns. She had seen the King before, in more informal attire – a leather jerkin and sturdy boots, his arms bared below the rolled-up sleeves of a deep-blue tunic – as he took careful aim at a painted hay bale. He had not been wearing the Raven Crown at that time and he had seemed much younger, much freer, with nothing between him and his target, but a perfectly loosened arrow. He hadn't looked much older than her own _Täti_ and it had been easy for Keri to find him intriguing; if she had been a little older, perhaps even attractive.

Now, however, he appeared from beneath the Mountain in the full force of his authority, dressed as the king he was. He was the first and only dwarven royalty Keri had encountered – while she had met human kings and even knew, if only intellectually, that Master Bard was king-apparent of Dale, Keri had never known the awe of watching a king or queen of the Khazâd. Ignorant as she was of her own heritage, Keri leaned forward as far as she dared and tried to take in the whole majesty of the procession beneath her.

Her excitement was now tempered with something like shyness, like wonder, like reverence. The face beneath the crown of gold and mithril was as focused as she remembered, but there was an aloofness about the King that Keri hadn't seen before. There was a stiffness to his shoulders, a certain precision in the way he straddled the pommel-less saddle, in the way he moved with the slightly rollicking gate of the ram beneath him. His features were impassive, but his dark gaze swept across the whole of the cheering crowd and the cobblestone street ahead of him. Keri was, perhaps, the first to notice that the King of Erebor was now sporting something much closer to an actual _beard_ and her keen mind – as observant as an owl and as curious as any raven – wondered over the change.

Skafidur's hooves clattered on the stones directly below Keri's precarious perch at the precise moment that the unthinkable happened. Later, no one would remember if the resounding crack that echoed against the rain-dampened walls around them was from the branch giving way beneath the weight of her sturdy young body, or if it was the thunder that chased a blinding streak of lightening.

* * *

 

Kíli couldn't _wait_ until he was seated comfortably in front of Bard's roaring fire. His thigh _burned_ , the pain from his old wound lanced straight up into his hip and below into his knee. The ride from Erebor was – at the pace of the procession itself – only half of an hour, but it felt like an eternity. The moisture in the air and the not-quite-cold breeze sweeping down from the top of Erebor was enough to make _everyone_ uncomfortable. But, for Kíli, it was a nearly unspeakable torture and he had never been so glad to see the gates of Dale. Just a few more minutes and he could drop the facade of kingly calm – if only for a few moments, while Bard and Bofur did their best to alleviate his pain for the remainder of the evening.

Preoccupied as he was by his discomfort, Kíli paid no heed to the curious dwarfling leaning a little too far forward on the branch above his head. As a result, he was taken as unaware as everyone else, when Skafidur reared with a sudden toss of his majestically horned head and a loud, unearthly cry of alarm. Several things happened at once -

Lightning flashed, something like thunder snapped abrasively across the crowd's startled silence, and a scream – shrill and frightened – competed with Skafidur's indignation. The four guards around the King reacted instantaneously to a dark bundle of _something_ that seemingly materialized out of the rain-soaked air in front of them. That same _something_ fell abruptly to the ground with a sharp thud and a sickening crunch that sound all too familiar. It was that familiar sound – like bones snapping – that made Kíli focus as quickly as he did on what was unfolding in front of Skafidur's snorting head and bucking hooves.

The guard nearest to the bundle already had his spear lowered, was already poised to attack the unknown, presumed assailant, when a second shriek rent the air – this one, of terror.

"Keri!” a young voice, a _child's_ voice, fought its way through the throng of human legs. “Keri! **Sisko! Tämä on siskon** **i!** ” [ _”Sister! That's my sister!”_ ]

Kíli didn't know the words, but some instinctual part of his memory recognized the rounded vowels and lilting inflection of the strange language. Without even thinking – before even Dwalin, who had grabbed a hold of Skafidur's reigns, could reach for him – the King Under the Mountain practically _flew_ from his saddle.

"Hold!” he roared, his voice as stentorian and abrupt as the thunder creeping ever closer to the valley.

The spearhead was mere inches from the precious, immobile bundle at the guard's armored feet. Trained instinct alone saved Keri's life, as the guard responded instantaneously to the command to stay his weapon. At that same moment, Kal forced his way between two human men and nearly fell flat on his face in the rush to reach his sister's side; tears streamed down his face and he scrabbled shamelessly in the muddy street as he fell to his knees.

"That's a dwarfling!” Kíli hissed, as he grabbed a hold of his guard's spear and wrenched it from the younger dwarf's grasp; Gimli's wide eyes stared at his king, horrified, as the truth of what he had almost done crashed over him.

" _Thanu men_ , I-” Gimili stuttered.

Kíli cut him short with a sharp, cutting motion of his hand, as he took a knee in the mud beside Keri's motionless body.

"Keri!” Kal – beyond caring if the King of Erebor was in his way or not – practically bowled Kíli over as he scrambled for his sister's hand.

"Easy,” Kíli murmured, as he grabbed the dwarfling by his waist and held him tight against his body with one thick, muscled arm.

"No! No! Lemme go!” Kal, blind in his terror, immediately swung out with his fists – one of which connected sharply with the side of Kíli's face, just below his right eye.

"Oh, mercy,” Balin sighed from behind his king's kneeling form; a pair of bare arms appeared from behind Kal's squirming body and plucked the dwarfling neatly from Kíli's more tenuous grasp.

Kíli didn't even look up, to know that it was Dwalin who had taken Kal – and, knowing the massive dwarf-warrior, had probably thrown the kicking, shouting child over his equally massive shoulder. Freed from the concern of keeping Kal from rashly moving his sister, the young King shifted his weight and leaned over the inert form curled up on the road in front of him. The crowd was completely silent, the only sounds the thunder above, and Kal's cries of fear and rage.

For several agonizing seconds, the worst was feared. But, the skin that Kíli pressed his fingers to was warm, and breath fluttered slowly against his hand. Kíli glanced up toward the sky and eyed the broken branch that still hung above them all, held to the diseased ash by nothing more than a few strips of clinging bark. A relieved sigh rushed from the King's lungs – it would have been far too easy for young Keri to have broken her neck, or cracked her skull, from such a height.

A closer examination revealed that she _hadn't_ landed on her head; rather, from the odd angle of her left shin, it appeared that the brunt of the fall had been absorbed by her legs. It took mere moments for Kíli to determine that the dwarfling hadn't done permanent damage to herself; before anyone could stop him, he slid his arms beneath her, cradling her body to his chest as he took to his own two feet.

Dwalin, however, managed to react quickly enough to attempt an aborted protest.

"Your Majesty -”

"Set the dwarfling down,” Kíli cut his Captain of the Guard off with a firm shake of his head; he turned toward Dwalin, but only to address the still-struggling Kal.

Dwalin obeyed – albeit, with obvious reluctance – and even Kíli wasn't prepared for the speed with which Kal moved to his side. The dwarfling stood on his toes, craning his neck in an obvious, unspoken effort to see his sister.

"She will be fine, but she needs a healer,” Kíli answered the question crying up at him from the depths of tear-filled eyes.

Now that he had a closer look at them both, the King remembered – if not their names – at least their familial association. The nearly-white hair and pale eyes were hard to forget.

"Take me to your aunt,” he commanded as gently as he could; Kal nodded mutely and turned toward the crowd without a second's hesitation.

* * *

 

"There,” Katrikki handed Kivi a hand-held mirror with which to inspect the finished product.

Kivi, however, didn't even bother glancing into the polished surface, before setting it down on the table in front of them. Something wasn't right – she could _feel_ it, deep in her bones, as certainly as she could feel stone cracking beneath her hammer.

"How long has it been since the twins left?” she demanded as she surged to her feet; Katrikki's huff of indignation was lost in the preoccupation of Kivi's gut misgivings.

"Twenty minutes, perhaps? You wouldn't stop fidgeting -”

Kivi had a sharp retort poised on her tongue, but before either her or her friend could say another word, the door behind them burst open.

"Kivi Journeyman?” the very _last_ voice that Kivi expected to hear from behind her that day, filled the small room with an ominous timbre.

Wide-eyed and suddenly breathless, Kivi turned and instinctively dipped into a rusty, uncertain courtesy.

"King Kíli -” her words and body froze halfway, as she registered the sodden bundle in his arms.

"I believe this dwarfling belongs to you,” his limp was impossible to ignore, as Kíli stepped forward across the threshold.

He held Keri's unconscious form out toward her trembling arms.

"She broke her leg, but I think she's fine otherwise.”

Kivi's hands brushed against his as he transferred the warm body of her niece over to her keeping. A tremor passed through the stonemason's body – but whether it was from the surge of emotion at seeing her young charge so completely incapacitated, or from the feel of Kíli's rough skin against hers, or from both, Kivi would never quite know. She held Keri to her, wide-eyed and speechless, for several long seconds, as she gaped up at the slightly taller Durin-son.

"Here,” Katrikki immediately switched into her healer's mode, and gently nudged Kivi and Keri toward the nearby table. “You two – sit,” she instructed firmly after she had helped her friend lay her niece down.

Kivi didn't need to be told twice; she all but fell back onto the stool she had been sitting on all morning, as Katrikki had braided her hair. Kíli was a little slower, as it took him a moment to spot another stool; he grabbed one from the far end of the table and – to Kivi's later surprise – set it down next to hers.

"Where's Kal?” she demanded dully after a few seconds of trying to figure out who was missing from the room.

"Dwalin – my Captain of the Royal Guard – and Balin – my adviser – have taken the young sir to Master Bard's house, on my command,” Kíli met her gaze straight-on as he abruptly lowered himself onto the stool; he barely stifled a groan of pain as he finally took weight off of his own bad leg. “Since the lad is friends with Bard's children and all... He's in a bit of a panic. I thought it best of he stay away until he calms down and his sister has been tended,” dark eyes drifted over toward the table and Katrikki's sure, steady hands.

"Thank you,” Kivi all but breathed the words into the heavy silence among them.

"What happened?” Katrikki asked, her tone efficient and slightly distracted by her present work.

"Tree limb broke,” Kíli rolled his shoulders beneath the heavy weight of his woolen cloak; his lips quirked upward in a small smile. “Nearly fell on top of me, as chance would have it.”

"Mahal preserve us,” Kivi scrubbed a hand roughly over teary eyes. ”Just like her father,” she added after a heavy sigh.

"Just like her _aunt_ ,” Katrikki snorted; she had the sight in front of her blocked by her back, but by the movements of her shoulders, both Kivi and Kíli could tell that she was resetting Keri's leg.

Kivi didn't respond, mostly because she knew that her friend was quite right – climbing a tree against her guardian's wishes and nearly falling on top of visiting royalty _was_ something she would have done in her own youth. A tiny smile played at the corners of her mouth as she glanced over at Kíli. It was only then that she realized that his cloak was soaked and that his lips were pressed thin in unmistakable pain.

"Please, _Thanu men_ ,” she rose to her feet and before Kíli could even react, her nimble fingers had undone his cloak's clasp and had whisked the wet wool off of his shoulders. “I know that you have duties to conclude with Master Bard today, but...” her voice trailed off for just a moment, as she swallowed her pride and bit her lip.

It was now, or never. And she owed Thorinkin a debt, whether he insisted upon it or not.

"We are just meager folk, but join us for dinner tonight,” she pointedly ignored his gaze, as she made a show of draping his cloak across a chair that she had dragged in front of the fire. "We have no other way to thank you.”

To her amazement, Kíli didn't even hesitate.

"It would be my honor, _Mestari_ Kivi.”

 


	17. Honor For Honor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which friendships are forged between Men and Dwarves, West and North...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case anyone notices the little details, I've changed the dating at the start of each chapter. I've found The Dwarrow Scholar to be an immense help in such confusing things as the appropriate dating of dwarven holidays. The site has a handy-dandy calendar up that reflects at least three years' worth of dwarven dates, based on our own Gregorian calendar (2014-2016). I'm basing the dates in this story on the 2014 calendar, so I had to push the starting date of our story back about a month or so.
> 
> All this to say, I'm a total nerd and OCD. Our tale originally started in May, but I've moved that to April, which has absolutely no bearing on the story itself...but it makes me happy. I roll like that. Please, dear Mahal, someone tell me I'm not the only one.

“ _I came by a house last night  
And told the woman I am staying.”_

“ **Nil Sè'n Là”**

**Celtic Women**

* * *

 

**Thanbnurt (Thn) 'Afkalm 30th**

_(Thursday, April 29th)_

_**Erebor** _

* * *

 

“Not that I don't think that you haven't made a wise decision, _ystäväni_ , but perhaps next time you shouldn't make last minute plans that involve _dinner_ ,” Katrikki stood in front of the open pantry door, hands on her hips. [ _“My friend”_ ]

“What do we have?” Kivi nervously twisted her hands and peered around the Ice Elf's shoulder at the assorted bags, cans, and barrels that were stocked neatly on the floor, or along the pantry's shelves.

“Well,” Katrikki began to pull her thick black tresses back from her face with one hand, as she fished for a ribbon in the small pocket hidden in the side of her plain gray surcote with the other. “As you know, Etsijä left us a fine catch of salmon early this morning before he set off. We can salt some of it, but I think fish is best eaten fresh, don't you think?”

“Definitely,” Kivi nodded solemnly.

There was a moment of silence and then the two women said almost simultaneously:

“ _Lohikeitto_.” [“ _Salmon soup”_ ]

“I do love it when we think alike,” Katrikki had finished tying her hair back and clapped her hands together. “This is most likely the last cold and rainy day we'll have before the summer begins.”

“And nothing goes better on a wet, rainy day like a good soup,” Kivi grinned up at her friend and then slid past her into the pantry proper. “What else? _Lohikeitto_ by its self would serve fine for just us, but of course I've invited a _king_ to dinner,” she paused as her words – and a slight sense of panic – sank in.

“Rye bread, of course,” Katrikki thought aloud in an almost sing-song voice. “Perhaps a nice pickled cucumber salad?”

Kivi paused, as she reached for a burlap sack full of potatoes.

“If the king doesn't like it, you know that Jarvi and _I_ will eat the whole bowl between ourselves,” she chuckled at the thought and hoisted the bag of tubers onto her shoulder. “Can't hurt.”

“And, as it happens, I've made the dough for _k_ _orvapuusti_ ; it should be done rising by now. That should finish off dinner nicely, yes?” Katrikki's dark eyes twinkled merrily – the sweet cardamon buns were filled with sugar and cinnamon, and _never_ lasted more than a few hours after baking.

They were, without a doubt, Kivi's most favorite thing to eat in all of Middle Earth. Katrikki hadn't, in fact, met a Dwarf or Man yet who could resist the sugary pastries. Chances were quite good, then, that Kíli Thorinkin would find them irresistible as well.

 _"Lohikeitto_ and _korvapuusti_ ,” Kivi sighed happily as she balanced the potatoes and reached for a bag of leeks, next. “That is a fine meal, Katrikki.”

“It isn't much,” the slim Elf-maid stepped aside as Kivi turned toward the table that was used just as much for cooking, as it was for eating, in the little home.

“I doubt he would expect a ten-course feast,” Kivi shrugged both bags off of her shoulders; they thudded soundly on the firm oak table. “I think that what we've decided upon is fine.”

It was Katrikki's turn to pull supplies for the pantry and she fussed for a moment as she tried to decide how many jars of pickled cucumbers to grab.

“You do know how to make my life interesting, Kivi,” the Avari shook her head with a faint smile playing along the edges of her pale-pink lips. “You're twice the age of Keri and just as bad.”

Kivi snorted and started to open the bag of potatoes, while Katrikki pulled out a loaf of day-old rye bread and added it to their growing pile of ingredients. Before the dwarf-maid could reply to Katrikki's playful teasing, the Elf asked a question so softly that it took Kivi a moment to understand what her friend had said.

“What made you do this?”

“You mean, _besides_ the fact that Kili Thorinkin kept my niece from being trampled? And then personally carried her to me?” Kivi tried, at first, to avoid answering Katrikki seriously.

“Yes, Kivi,” the Elf-maid replied patiently. “ _Besides_ the obvious.”

For several long moments nothing more was said, as Kivi settled down on a stool and began to peel the potatoes that she had selected. After about five minutes of quiet contemplation, she answered slowly.

“Etsijä guided me on a shadow journey last night,” Kivi began with the most recent catalyst after realizing that she hadn't yet told Katrikki of what had taken place just a few hours before. “And I saw three possible futures – in one, I was dressed for the Mother's Rite, for what I suppose they would call here in the West, my 'coronation'. In another, I was -” the dwarf-maid paused and couldn't quite hide the blush that crept into her cheeks. “Well...I was in my bed. In...in my _marriage_ bed.”

Katrikki set a bowl of risen dough on the table across from Kivi and looked sharply over at her companion. Kivi couldn't fault her for the surprise – and keen interest – that crossed the Elf-maid's face.

“Alone?”

“No,” Kivi's blush now threatened to brighten the entirety of her face. “There was a man. A...a dwarf,” she added reluctantly.

To Katrikki's credit, she tried not to smile, but even though she turned her head and pretended to be especially interested in the precise slices she was cutting from the rye bread in front of her, Kivi could see the muscles of her cheek lift. The mason stifled a sigh – _all_ of her companions had wondered if she would ever marry of her own will, so reporting a vision about a shared marriage bed was an answer to many hopes. That she had Seen a dwarf laying with her was unprecedented news.

They meant well, her friends. While no one except herself knew any of the details, Kivi's faithful retinue knew that she had suffered greatly at Synkkä's hands. He had forced marriage, for political gain, on her just shortly after her first moon-cycle – she had, by Men's reckoning of age, been barely thirteen years of age. By the reckoning of both dwarrow _and_ Men, she had still been a child. She had been beaten and raped – she had given nothing in that false marriage willingly. As an adult, those wounds still lingered and the idea of sharing her body, her  _bed_ , with a man of _any_ race, had been terrifying.

Yet, she had not felt terror during her vision. Confusion, yes. Astonishment, yes. But, also tenderness, passion, and dare she think it, _love_. Flustered at the thought, Kivi awkwardly pressed the conversation forward, not daring to look over at Katrikki again.

“I didn't see his face, of course. No vision is ever so obvious,” she had known the Elvin healer long enough to know what she was wondering. “But, he had dark hair,” despite herself, Kivi's voice softened at the memory. “And a craftsman's hands,” after a pause, she added in something barely above a whisper, “Gentle hands.”

For almost ten minutes after, the two women said nothing. They each focused on their respective tasks – Kivi on cutting her peeled potatoes into chunks and Katrikki on arranging the sliced bread in a pair of cloth-lined serving baskets. Kivi knew that Katrikki was practically _bursting_ with curiosity and could feel the simmering questions in the air between them. But, the Elf was wise enough to hold her own council and to let Kivi continue her account without unnecessary distraction.

“You said that you saw _three_ possible futures?” Katrikki finally broke the silence and gently encouraged Kivi to continue her account.

“Ah. Yes,” Kivi stood up abruptly and went over to the fireplace to grab the empty cast-iron pot that hung to the side of the hearth on a hook. “I saw the Pillaged Fields, again,” she suddenly wished that her hair had not been braided up, so that she could perhaps hide behind her coppery tresses. “Our people were...” her breath hitched as a shudder coursed through her stout body. “Dead. They were all dead. And I saw Aurinko -”

“Etsijä's daughter?” Katrikki interrupted in surprise; Kivi risked a side-ways glance at her and nodded miserably.

“Aye. Etsijä's daughter. There were far fewer than there should have been, Katrikki,” Kivi could feel hot tears prick the corners of her eyes and she had to take a steadying breath. “Every last able body was needed. But they died, trying to do what _I_ should have done long before now, trying to take my mother's throne back from the Ironfists.”

Kivi dumped the mound of quartered potatoes into the pot and started on the leeks. The mundane tasks of cooking helped soothe some of the sting of her words and of the truths she had realized the eve before.

“I saw Etsijä there, too, holding Aurinko and...” Kivi paused and swallowed hard as the memory of the Lossoth's sorrow echoed through her very conscience. “I saw his grief. I saw what he's risked to find me and to stand by me all these years,” the dwarf-maid's reached up and rubbed her left forearm across her eyes. “I have repaid his sacrifices poorly, if at all.

“Our people are dying, Katrikki,” she continued after a deep, steadying breath. “And _more_ will die. Viljo had the courage to aid Thorin Oakenshield, in exchange for the hope that he would help us once Erebor was secured...”

Kivi's voice trailed off, as she remembered the bitter day over two years earlier, when Etsijä had returned from the _erämaassa_ with news of a Gathering at Ered Luin. The lords of the seven dwarven Houses – or, at least, their representatives – had been called to council.

One of the duties of the Eldest Brother was to speak for the Chief of the North in such dwarven meetings, so as to hide their _Äiti_ 's identity. The Stiffbeards had long been cautious of the other Houses discovering that they held the greatest wealth of all among the dwarven peoples – dwarrow-dams in plenty, at least five born to one son. As it turned out, their centuries-old paranoia had been rightly justified. The Ironfists – the first of the Houses to stand on the brink of extinction – had discovered the Stiffbeards' secret and had then invaded them because of it. Though none of the other five Houses were yet so hard-pressed for sons, the fear of conquest because of their plenty had always been, and always would remain, very real.

Kivi had forbidden Viljo from answering the call of the Durin heir, Thorin Oakenshield. Even Synkkä would not dare ignore such a summons and his presence at the Gathering – or that of Raaka, his brother and second-in-command – was a certainty. Viljo's presence would simply galvanize any effort that Synkkä may have had in trying to find her.

Her brother ignored her and had gone anyway, leaving behind a note explaining to her that if the heir of Durin had a need so great that he called a Gathering, perhaps Viljo could barter a deal – his help, in exchange for Oakenshield's help later. Viljo had never returned from Ered Luin, though his body had been found by a hunting party the day after the Gathering had been concluded. When Kivi, Jarvi, and Seppä had traveled to Ered Luin reclaim their fallen, she had heard that “not one of the seven lords had pledged to aid Oakenshield in recovering the lost wealth of Erebor”. She also learned that it was Raaka had attended the Gathering and the animosity between the Stiffbeard and Ironfist “representatives” had been noted by many, though not inquired after. She suspected, then, that Viljo had planned to make his deal with the heir-apparent in private, but had been killed by Raaka before that chance had arose.

Viljo had defied the order of his chieftain and had gambled his life in a bid for Durin's aid.

“I should be willing to do the same,” Kivi continued and Katrikki didn't seem bothered by the brief lapse between the dwarf-maid's spoken train of thought. “I should be willing to risk _everything_ , as Viljo did. In many ways,” Kivi's knife falter and she stopped slicing a leek long enough to sigh heavily and rest her forehead against the palm of her left hand. “Viljo was a better chief than I.”

“Viljo was not at Kivi-Torni the day that the Ironfists invaded the Sky Hall. He never saw what you did,” Katrikki delicately alluded to the deaths that Kivi had witnessed that day. “And he was _never_ Synkkä's slave. Your brother never had to overcome what you have.”

“I know,” Kivi replied heavily, her face still hidden by her hand. “But -”

The Ice Elf cut her off before she could go any further.

“You have finally found your way, _Äiti_. And the length of your exile has not been entirely necessitated by your healing,” Katrikki finally set aside the baskets of covered, sliced bread and turned her attention to the bowl of cardamon-spiced dough she had set to rise that morning. “No other House could aid you as well as Durin's folk and an opportunity like the one presented to Viljo hasn't been available to you until these past few months.”

“I know -” Kivi tried again.

“For the reasons you have told me, and for more I'm sure you have not yet shared, you have now made the choice to follow Viljo's example,” Katrikki cut her off again and her voice had a note of finality to it. “All that matters is that the hope that our dead will not have sacrificed in vain.”

“No more,” Kivi finally raised her head again and echoed the vow she had given the night before. “Anyway,” she sighed heavily, shrugged, and then leaned forward on the table to fish a fresh leek out of its bag. “Thorinkin has acted toward us with great honor today. And for another,” she wagged a finger accusingly in Katrikki's direction. “I haven't yet said that I'd help him.”

“You've implied it, by your oath,” the Avari sniffed. “And you would not have extended an offer of hospitality if you did not intend to swallow your pride.”

Kivi grumbled under her breath for a few moments. Katrikki knew her well.

“Will you reveal yourself to him?” her friend continued nonchalantly, as she started flattening out the dough with a rolling pin.

Kivi froze, understanding immediately what Katrikki meant. Would she finally come out of hiding and present herself to the King Under the Mountain as the Chief of the North? After an agonizing pause, the dwarf-maid made her decision.

“I will reveal myself to Durin's folk with the Horned Crown on my brow and _Jäänmurtaja_ in my hand. Synkkä will surely hear of it when I do so and I am not ready for that yet,” she shook her scarlet head with a firm – some would say, stubborn – set to her jaw. “For now, Kíli Thorinkin need only know that I am a daughter of the North and the master mason that he requires.”

“As you wish,” Katrikki murmured and Kivi knew that her friend disagreed with what she had chosen.

But, she respected it, at least. Kivi had made great strides in just a few days and further revelations would come when she was ready. For now, for this moment, she was _not_ ready to emerge from her long exile.

“Perhaps that is best after all,” the healer cut into Kivi's thoughts and the dwarf-maid was surprised to hear a measure of approval. “If Erebor is rebuilt and your talent proven, the King will be far more likely to pledge himself to an alliance.”

“Synkkä will _not_ go quietly into the night,” Kivi agreed, relieved by Katrikki's acquiescence. “Thorinkin cannot commit forces to a war, when his kingdom is still in shambles. Revealing myself before I can guarantee the strength of Durin's folk may inspire the Ironfists to retaliate before _any_ of us are ready to fully engage them. I think, for now, anonymity is the wisest course of action.”

“Then we shall stand by your decision and in the meantime,” Katrikki finally met Kivi's gaze and her pale, delicate face brightened with a smile. “We shall simply call you _Mestari,_ for you are more than just 'Kivi' now.”

* * *

 

Kíli had not yet told Bard about his change in dinner plans; there were certain courtesies and customs to observe, first. It started with the future King of Dale meeting them at the bottom of his long-house's steps.

“Welcome, Kíli Thorinkin, King Under the Mountain,” Bard did a rather impressive job of projecting his voice over the murmur and shuffle of the crowd that had gathered around them. “We Men of Dale are honored by your visit today, on the eve of your great fest.”

“We thank you, Bard Girion, Bowman of Dale,” Kíli paused as he swung his leg over Skafidur's woolly back and settled both feet on the ground; Dwalin stood dutifully with the war-mount's reins, as his king walked, limp now hidden, to grasp forearms with the Man. “It is our honor to end the ages of silence between us and to share the Deep Ale Fest beneath the spire of Erebor.”

“In memory of the friendship our forefathers once shared, we of Dale offer seven casks of our finest ale to the Harnkegger,” Bard motioned toward a wagon full of barrels that had been pulled up next to the stairs. “May our gift forge a renewed friendship between our peoples.”

It was now time for the Harnkegger himself to step forward and join the two kings in front of the crowd. Every year, the dwarrow of the West chose one from among their Houses who had worked the hardest and had produced the finest craft in the month between the end of the Blessed Green Fest and the start of the Deep Ale Fest. This year, the title of Harnkegger had been given to Dreth, a young smith from the Blue Mountains. As such, it was Dreth who would act as the master of ceremonies throughout the ten day festival. Usually, he wouldn't have been chosen until the morrow, but the day would start early with the Council of Lords and there would be little time to make this presentation to Bard. Kíli and his advisors – all former members of Thorin's Company and who all shared their King's desire to honor the Man directly responsible for destroying Smaug – had decided that they would choose the Harnkegger a day early, so that the Man's gift of ale could be “properly” accepted.

Besides overseeing the Fest, the Harnkegger also had the honor of accepting the gifts of ale that would be donated to the ten-day party, of opening and sampling the first cask, and of sampling every single cask in order to choose the one worthy of being named the finest. Traditionally, all kegs had to be accounted for by the end of the first day, so that the Harnkegger had time to make his decision.

There were probably mutters of disapproval from some dwarf or another, but for his part, Dreth didn't seem to mind the early honor. His chest was pushed out proudly as he took his place just behind his King, and bowed low.

“On behalf of Erebor, Ered Luin, and the Iron Hills, I accept your gift, Master Bard,” Dreth's voice was a pleasant alto and his tone warm with obvious delight. “Your casks are the first of the summer and will be opened first next eve. I welcome you – and any of the folk of Dale – beneath the Mountain, to join in our tasting.”

There was a murmur of surprise from the crowd. Everyone knew, of course, that Dreth's offer did not originate from his own initiative, but were a formal extension of Kíli's hospitality through him.

“It would be my honor,” Bard replied solemnly and bowed his head respectfully toward Dreth. “You have bestowed upon us an even greater gift.”

There was a collective cheer of approval and it was several seconds before the crowd settled down enough for Kíli to match Dale's gift with one from Erebor.

“Us of Erebor have been watching the progress of your city walls and towers,” the young King turned his head and gestured toward Dale-at-large with one heavily ringed hand. “And Dale will surely be fully rebuilt before the Deep Ale Fest returns again. So we have decided to give you a gift in anticipation of that day,” Kíli now turned slightly toward Dreth, who offered him an exquisitely carved box that was barely bigger than a swaddled infant and noticeably wider at its width than at its height. “And we present to you a crown, crafted by our Harnkegger's own hand.”

Kíli had to fight down a boyish grin at the way Bard's eyes unconsciously widened. In less formal circumstances, he suspected the Man's jaw would have dropped. He moved his right hand to open the lid, but was surprised when the Bowman gently raised his own hand and pressed it down on top of Kíli's.

“Then I shall treat this gift as a groom does his bride's wedding gown,” Bard maintained his decorum, but his brown eyes twinkled merrily. “And the first sight Dale and I shall have of it, is on my coronation day.”

He was cut off by more cheers and an enthusiastic round of clapping. At this, both men allowed themselves to grin at each other; the ceremonial greeting ended with Bard throwing an arm around Kíli's shoulders and leading the dwarven king into the Hall.

Kíli, for his part, was able to school his walk and appear as whole, as strong, and as proud as ever in front of both Khazâd and Men. But, once the door to Bard's Hall closed behind him, he grimaced and limped toward the first stool he spotted. Bard cut him off, though, and motioned toward the chair in front of the fire.

“Enjoy the warmth, my friend,” he reached toward two waiting tankards as Kíli settled himself with a grateful groan.

From this point on, it was just him, Bard, Balin, Dwalin, and Bofur. Young voices drifted from the far end of the Hall, from behind a partial wooden wall that separated the sleeping area from the rest. Tilda, Sigrid, and Bain were present then as well, but were apparently busy entertaining their own guest, the young Kalevi, who had been accompanied by Balin, ahead of the King's procession.

The rest of the men sat down on stools scattered around Kíli's own seat. For a moment, nothing was said as pipes were pulled out, tankards filled, and boots propped up on adjacent stools. These were the kings of Dale and Erebor as their populace rarely, if ever, saw – as ordinary men, who were unexpectedly given crowns.

“So, I hear from Kalevi that you were almost flattened by a dwarfling today,” Bard was the first to break the silence, his voice light and teasing.

Kíli couldn't help a short laugh. That was one way of putting it.

“His sister is quite the adventurer,” he shook his head with a smile as he lit his long-stemmed pipe.

“Reminds me of a certain lad who did something quite similar long ago,” Balin added slyly; Kíli groaned and rolled his eyes.

“Oh, I _have_ to hear this,” Bard's eyes crinkled in a toothy grin.

“His Majesty was, oh, a laddie of about sixty or so – something like fourteen years by Men's reckoning – when Lord Dáin came to visit Ered Luin for the Midsummer's Fest,” Balin was, in Kíli's opinion, a little too eager to tell the tale. “The young master decided to climb a tree, overlooking the Iron Hill's procession, but as it did for young Mistress Keri, his branch broke.”

“Clean off, in fact,” Dwalin mumbled around the stem of his pipe. “'Cept Kíli here was quick enough to grab the branch above him when the one below him gave way. Got Dáin smacked by an ash limb, though. Knocked him clean off his pony, out cold.”

Bard threw back his head and laughed. Even Kíli cracked a smile, though he rolled his eyes again.

“Was the first time I'd ever met my uncle's cousin, too,” this confession just made Bard laugh harder and the King's smile grow wider. “Thorin made sure I couldn't sit down comfortably for a _week_. Fíli never did let me live it down, either. When Uncle called a Gathering of the seven lords before starting our quest for Erebor, my brother and I left a few days before. The whole way to the Shire, Fíli kept saying it was a good thing we'd gone on ahead, or I'd have taken out some other unfortunate dwarf lord. Have to admit, I didn't climb a tree again until my life _literally_ depended on it.”

Bard snorted in mirth and the room felt considerably brighter than the drizzly mid-afternoon outside the Hall. Another comfortable silence fell, until Kíli reckoned he ought to tell Bard of his new development with Dale's master mason.

“Speaking of your mason's dwarflings,” he leaned back in his chair and sighed heavily as his thigh continued to throb in protest to the lingering damp. “I'm afraid you'll have to have your feast tonight without me.”

“Oh?” Bard just lifted an eyebrow and peered expectantly over the rim of his tankard.

“Master Kivi extended her hospitality,” even though his reason for skipping out on Bard was quite valid, Kíli could help feeling a bit bemused. “And in light of all that's happened between us – both today and at the start of this week – I accepted. The others will stay behind,” he jerked his chin vaguely toward Balin, who was sitting closest to him. “But, I will be dining with your _Mestari_ tonight.”

“A wise decision,” rather than being put off, Bard seemed quite pleased by the development. “Perhaps some sort of agreement can be reached between the two of you.”

“That is my hope as well,” Kíli agreed. “But, I've taken your advice to heart and will let Master Kivi broach that subject when, and _if_ , she chooses.”

“And they say you can't teach an old dwarf new manners,” Bard chuckled.

“I'm not _that_ old,” was the immediate protestation amid a chorus of laughter.

With that bit of business settled, the afternoon progressed pleasantly enough with ale and good company. An allegiance had been officially formed between the Men of Dale and the Khazâd of Erebor; both parties hoped that it was the first light of a new age beneath and beyond the Lonely Mountain. And Kíli couldn't help the fragile hope that a similar friendship could be made later, around the _Mestari_ 's table.

* * *

 

The humble home smelled _amazing_. Kíli could practically _taste_ the cinnamon in the air, which, surprisingly enough, didn't clash with the deeper scent of the creamy salmon soup. It was much warmer in Kivi Journeyman's abode, than it had been in Bard's larger Hall, and the young King was grateful on behalf of his aching leg.

Talk around the table was awkward at first, as Kivi was very clearly nervous. But, Kíli had brought Bofur with him and the mason had her cousin, Jarvi present. To everyone's surprise, the two mustached men hit it off as soon as their introductions had been exchanged and though it remained strained between Kíli and Kivi, their dinner didn't lack for entertainment.

“Oooh, I can't eat another bite,” Bofur groaned as he finished his second helping of Kivi's salmon soup.

“Well, you've got no choice: you have to make some room for Katrikki's _korvapuusti_ ,” Jarvi waved his spoon rebukingly across the table at his guest. “She'll never forgive you if you don't eat at least _two_ an' believe me, the Avari can hold a grudge.”

“Isn't that _all_ Elves, though?” Bofur leaned back and patted his stomach with satisfaction.

“Yes,” Jarvi blurted and then thought a moment before adding: “But, you never said that and I never agreed.”

Bofur had a good laugh at that and after a bit more banter, the two decided to walk two streets over to visit Seppä's forge. Jarvi did some woodwork on the side and apparently kept his tools at the smithy. Bofur, who enjoyed working with wood as well, had expressed an interest in seeing what tools Jarvi used; Kivi and Kíli soon found themselves alone with one another rather unexpectedly.

 _Apparently, Bofur's forgotten about not leaving me alone with an unmarried dwarrow-maid,_ Kíli sighed silently.

He was _fairly_ certain that Jarvi had been _flirting_ with Bofur. As much as he wanted to, the young king couldn't fault his dear friend for forgetting such minor details as royal customs when a handsome stranger was showering him with attention. As long as Bofur never said a word about his lapse as a chaperon, neither would he.

Kivi confirmed his suspicion.

“I do believe my cousin is quite taken with your companion,” she said abruptly, by way of breaking the metaphorical ice between them. “I hope this is not a problem in Western customs?”

“Not in the slightest,” Kíli offered her a small smile; she ducked her head as if suddenly shy, and fiddled with her empty spoon as he tried to cover the fact that her question had surprised him. “I hear that Men often find offense, but with so few dwarrow-dams, it would be hypocritical to support such discrimination among the Khazâd. Truthfully, we think nothing of it.”

“Good,” Kivi spoke to her bowl, but she seemed pleased by his answer. “It has been many years since I've seen Jarvi enjoy another dwarf's acquaintance as much as he did tonight.”

“I think I can say the same for Bofur. May we both wish them well, then.”

Kivi glanced up in time to see Kíli salute her with his simple, glazed mug. To his surprise, the corners of her mouth lifted ever so slightly and she raised her mug as well. They touched their rims together and then took a hearty pull of the fragrant blackberry mead that Jarvi had brought for the occasion. As soon as her mug touched the table top again, Kivi started speaking again, this time to the empty bread basket between them.

“You have acted toward me and mine with great honor today, m'lord. If you would allow me, I would like to return your favor.”

Kíli kept his expression neutral, but he couldn't quite help a brief furrow of his brow. He could sense that Kivi was struggling with what she was about to say and he couldn't help hoping upon hope that...

“It has been suggested to me by wiser minds to offer my services to Dale _and_ Erebor, simultaneously,” she startled him again by abruptly raising her gaze and fixing him with those fetching eyes of hers. “As a _mestari_ , I am fully capable of overseeing the reconstruction of Erebor and the conclusion of Dale's. I-” here, she paused, swallowed visibly, and then continued with only the slightest waver in her voice. “I offer the skill of my chisel and hammer to the halls of Durin, to your home. I only ask...” her voice finally trailed off, uncertain.

“I swear upon my crown that you may ask of me whatever it is you desire,” Kíli didn't think about what he was doing, until he had reached forward across the table and rested the tips of his fingers on the dwarf-maid's wrist.

That startled both of them and Kivi's body stiffened slightly. But she didn't pull her arm away and neither did Kíli. It felt right to him, somehow, to bind his vow with a touch and she seemed to feel the same way. From what little he had gathered of her character, the young King didn't doubt that she would have moved away from his hand if it had been truly unwelcome.

She took a deep breath, as if preparing herself for battle. Then she spoke and it took everything in Kíli _not_ to give into his immediate rush of curiosity.

“I only ask, Your Majesty, that you help me rebuild _my_ home, when the time comes.”

He _so_ wanted to ask her what she meant by that, about what Jarvi had meant by there being _“trouble in the North”_. But, he held a firm hand to his questions and when he didn't immediately blurt out the first thing that came to mind, something changed in Kivi's gaze.

“It is done,” he said, instead, and then he understood what had shifted between them.

She had _expected_ pressure to explain her cryptic request, _not_ the blind faith that he had given her. Suspicion suddenly switched to surprise, and then to approval. Even if she didn't realize it, she had just put him to the test...and by the grace of Mahal, he had passed. Perhaps now, they could go forward.

“Come before my throne tomorrow, during the Council of Lords. Please,” he added, Bard's admonition ringing in his ears.

“ _Ask, don't tell...She met you as an equal. Give her the same courtesy..."_

“You would give an even greater service to Erebor, if you offered your aid in front of the lords of West.”

“The...Broadbeams, the Firebeards, and your kin? The Longbeards?” she tucked her chin in slightly toward her chest and gave him a rather inscrutable look through her lashes.

“Yes,” Kíli nodded and sent his King's braid swinging across his cheek; her eyes dropped and followed the flashing light of his father's amber aglet. “Unless a Gathering is called, my kin from the Iron Hills and Ered Luin are the only ones to attend our feasts.”

“Very well,” she lifted her eyes again and straightened her shoulders in a universal dwarven gesture of determination. “I will make my oath, tomorrow, before the throne of Durin and its lords.”

“Thank you,” Kíli couldn't help the abrupt sigh of relief and the tiniest of smiles pulled at the edges of her mouth.

He didn't mean anything by it – not at first. But, as it seemed an appropriate gesture under the circumstances, Kíli slid his fingers from her wrist and curled them around the width of her palm. Kivi jerked her torso back in surprise, but kept her hand in his. Slowly, gently, sensing that if he moved too quickly, he might frighten her, Kíli lifted her fingers and pressed her knuckles against his lips.

Her eyes grew wide, as if she had never had a man do such a thing before. She didn't pull her body back any further, though, and Kíli let his lips linger for a moment or two more than was perhaps appropriate. Her skin was soft and her fingers, while undoubtedly strong, felt delicate within his grasp. It was then, as the fire highlighted her amber braids and as her smooth cheeks turned the faintest shade of rose, that Kíli realized that he thought her beautiful.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Credit goes to Imreth for inspiring Kíli's little tale about taking Dáin out with a tree branch. He and Keri are absolutely kindred spirits.


	18. Secrets of the North

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Kivi pledges her aid in the Council of Lords, and Dís remembers Viljo's sister...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The cloth that Katrikki and Kivi are described as wearing is known as "shot silk", or, specifically in this case, "iridescent silk tafetta", which is a type shot silk.
> 
> You can Google "orange with black shot dupioni silk" to see what Kivi's tunic would look like. You can also Google "Iceland blue silk tafetta fabric" to see what Katrikki's surcote might look like.
> 
> Reference for shot silk: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Shot_silk
> 
> This particular fabric has existed since the 7th century C.E., so I think it would fit just as nicely into the Third Age world of Arda. Although, certainly, it'd be a pretty exotic fabric to the Men/Dwarves of the West. I see it as an Elvish fabric, primarily from the East, but I think it would exist here and there among the Elves of Rivendell and Mirkwood/Greenwood.

_"I said to her: The moon is bright_

_And my fiddle's tuned for playing."_

**"Nil Sè'n Là"**

**Celtic Women**

* * *

 

**Abkân-nurt (Ab), 'Afgargablâg 1st**

_(Friday, April 30th)_

**_Erebor_ **

* * *

 

Kíli was beginning to sweat beneath the thick black fur of his formal court coat. The lords of Ered Luin and the Iron Hills had been going at him – and each other – for almost four hours. While he hadn't quite expected Kivi Journeyman to wake up at the crack of dawn like they had, he had thought she'd have made her appearance by now. It was mid-morning, almost time for the noon meal, and he hadn't seen so much as a glimpse of copper in the crowd of dwarrow men that had gathered in the newly rebuilt Gallery of Kings.

"Balin," the young King rubbed a hand over his growing beard in an attempt to hide his whispered aside.

A noble of the Iron Hills – a particularly argumentative dwarf by the name of Gildrumir – was currently listing Kíli's many perceived shortcomings to the gathering at large. This was about the fifth time this had happened,in varying degrees and from varying dwarves, and Kíli had stopped listening somewhere into the third tirade. Now, he was just bored.

And nervous. Alarmingly so.

"Yes, _thanu men_?" Balin leaned his white head ever so slightly toward Kíli’s right hand.

"Has there been any word of the mason?"

"The Stiffbeard maid?"

"Yes."

"Ach, no m'lord."

"Hmm," Kíli made a low noise of displeasure in the back of his throat, as his eyes scanned the imposing intersection of halls that had been chosen to host the Council of Lords.

It took every ounce of willpower not to fidget. His great oak chair from the private council chamber had been moved and he now sat straight and stately, with his back to the entrance of the Great Forges and his face toward the opened gates of Erebor. While the cushioned wooden chair was a more comfortable seat, by far, than the Mountain’s granite throne, it was still hard to sit so properly for so long. His neck was starting to stiffen from the weight of the Raven Crown and he was beginning to feel like someone had dumped a bucket of lukewarm water down the back of his under-tunic. Noon – or Kivi, whichever – couldn't come soon enough.

"...The eastern interlock caved while under the skill of two master masons who had almost two hundred years worth of experience when combined together," Gildrumir knew well how to project his voice and Kíli had no doubt that those in the galleries above them could hear the dwarf lord's every enunciation. "And now we're expected to believe that a mason who has only just passed his Master's Trial can rebuild the interlock? Indeed, the whole of Erebor?"

There were far more grumbles of agreement at that than Kíli would have liked. He shifted slightly in his seat, moving his weight from the left to the right, and thought that it had been a wise decision to leave Alf out of the Council. True, Alf wouldn't be able to hear what the likes of Gildrumir were saying, but he'd be able to piece the gist of it together soon enough. So far that morning, if Kíli's own faults weren't being listed, the most common topic of "conversation" was the woeful lack of Alf's experience. The young Durin had learned quickly since taking up his uncle’s crown to have a relatively thick skin. He doubted the same could be said of poor Alf.

"...This 'Master Mason' that has been promised, time over and again, is a lie!" Gildrumir seemed to have finally worked himself up to what he'd wanted to say all along. "It is an insult to the memory of those who have been lost! It is an insult to Erebor and by extension, to all of Durin's kin! What is needed at this crucial time is experience and surety. _Both_ have been sorely lacking in most respects beneath this spire."

"Mind your words, Master Gildrumir," Dáin growled from where he stood at Kíli left hand. "Unless you have solutions to this catalog of problems that you are so easily able to list, then you would do well to keep your council!"

Kíli was fairly certain that the hall would erupt into fisticuffs if Dáin and Gildrumir were given any chance to gather steam. Unfortunately, the young King felt about as able to stop the two lords from ripping each others throats out (metaphorically _or_ literally), as he had in stopping the eastern interlock from caving. Before he had any time to perhaps think on a suitable derailment of the brewing collision, however, the crowd toward the back of the main hallway began to part. Poor Glóin, who had been standing with his Guard at the Gallery’s four-way intersection, had no chance whatsoever to announce the arrival of the familiar, mustached half-dwarf that came marching through the dwarrow toward their king.

The halls fell silent for the first time. Kíli, for his part, had to stifle a heavy sigh of relief, as he watched the crowd press back toward the Gallery’s granite columns. In mere moments, there was a clear path between Glóin and Kíli.

Jarvi led, dressed in a fine, dark-brown tunic in the style that Kíli had seen him wear at their first meeting – high collar, short hem, and brightly embroidered. The layered stripes that bordered his neck-line and cuffs were a cheerful mixture of vibrant green, gold, and scarlet. His trousers were the same rich umber of his jerkin and his freshly-shined black boots stopped at his knees. Around his waist was a black leather belt that had been studded with copper all around the top and bottom; from that belt hung a number of pouches and tools. Kíli realized, with a small jolt of surprise, that Jarvi carried the tools of a mason.

Behind came a stout,barrel-chested dwarf Kíli hadn't seen before. His ebony hair was shot through with silver and looked as if the comb that could tame it had never been found. His beard was long and thin, and knotted at intervals – or at least gathered at those intervals with rounded clasps that were so dark that they blended perfectly with his hair. He was dressed in the same style as Jarvi, though his colors were black – head to toe – with only four alternating stripes of white and blue around his wrist and collar. There were no tools attached to his belt, but one glance at the dwarf's meaty and deeply-scarred hands told anyone who could see them that this was a smith.

The silence was finally broken when Katrikki glided gracefully along behind the black-haired dwarf. There were murmurs of surprise and even of indignation; some, however, just stood with jaws slightly agape. Katrikki was very certainly an Elf, but she was unlike any that they of the West had ever seen. Her hair was straight and sleek, long and unbraided; it was also black. Her skin was so pale that it seemed translucent and her small eyes narrowed at their corners. She was shorter than her Western kin as well, though still much taller than most dwarves and at least as tall as the average woman among the Men. While her black hair and stature caused its own ripple of amazement through the crowd, it was her dress that drew the attention of most eyes in the room. She wore a fur-trimmed sideless surcote layered over a more form-fitting dress. The underdress was ordinary enough – a plain midnight blue that accentuated the curve of her hips and that buttoned tightly from wrist to elbow. The surcote, however...as she made her stately way toward Kíli's pseudo-throne, he couldn't decide if the open-sided over-dress was a dove gray or a glacial blue. Katrikki shimmered wherever the hall's many torches illuminated her fair form; Kíli found himself wondering if the Elves of the North had somehow learned to enchant cloth so that it reflected every ephemeral hue of their frozen rivers.

Then, the Gallery fell completely silent; even the soft shuffle of shifting bodies had stilled. And for every shade of ice that graced Katrikki's body, Kivi matched in shades of fire.

The Stiffbeard mason came into the hall with a swagger that could have put Fìli in his place. She wore a rust-brown jerkin made of some sort of soft and supple leather the likes of which Kíli had never seen before. A row of five knotted laces closed the front of the jerkin, which fell to just below Kivi's knees. Around her waist was a thick, studded belt hung with mason's tools, like Jarvi's. Tucked into her simple, knee-high boots were ordinary black trousers. What made every eye in the room turn to her was the tunic she wore beneath her jerkin. Like Katrikki's surcote, Kíli couldn't quite decide what color the blasted thing was – orange? Red? Copper? Amber? The fierce hues shifted far too much beneath the torchlight for any one color to be decided upon. The result was that Kivi Journeyman seemed to glow, like the raw amber that Kíli had put up against the light of his jewelers room. With her reddish-blond hair braided around her head like a crown, it was not hard to wonder if Dale's humble _Mestari_ had been somehow replaced by a queen.

"Your Majesty," she raised a fist to her heart and bowed once she had come abreast of the others, who had stopped about a spear's length from Kíli's chair. "Hail and well met."

“Welcome, _Mestari_ Kivi,” it was all Kíli could do to keep his shoulders from sagging in obvious relief. “We thank you for your presence at this Council.”

“It is my honor, Your Majesty,” Kivi replied solemnly as she straightened her back and let her fist fall down to her side. “I have come, as you have requested, to offer my aid to this Mountain. I have brought other masters of the North, who have traveled with me in the lands of Men these many years,” she turned her head and nodded, first to the left and then to the right, where her three companions had gathered themselves at her side. “May I introduce to you _Mestari_ Jarvi, my cousin, and a master mason of the Umli.”

Jarvi put his hand to his heart and bowed; Kíli remained silent, but nodded in greeting to the scarlet-haired half-dwarf. Kivi continued her introductions without hesitation, as her gaze turned to the two who stood at her left.

“This is _Mestari_ Seppä, a master smith of Thulin’s folk.”

The crowd finally broke its silence, as a murmur of surprise rippled softly through the dwarrow.

“And this is _Mestari_ Katrikki, a master healer and fire-crafter of the Avari.”

“Well met, friends of Erebor,” Kíli bowed his head to each of Kivi’s companions as she introduced them. “You have come with _Mestari_ Kivi to help her rebuild these ancient halls?”

“We have, Your Majesty,” it was Jarvi who answered, his voice a distinctive rumble against the polished granite walls and golden floor.

There was then a pause long enough for Gildrumir to make his disapproval known.

“An _Elf_ ? And a _maid_ ? _These_ are the master builders promised Erebor?” the blond-haired dwarf lord quivered with indignation.

“Four races met to save this Mountain from the Pale Orc and his forces,” Kíli made no attempt to modulate the ice in his voice. “One of which were the Elves of the Greenwood, whose deeds on and after the battlefield have ensured that _all_ their kin are welcome here. As for the master mason who comes before us to pledge her skills to our people, what difference does it make if she is a maid?”

“Who would vouch for her skill? She is unknown to Durin’s House,” Gildrumir sneered.

“Ask the towers of Osgiliath, the sea-walls of Dol Amroth, and the gates of Dale,” Kivi did not turn away from the King, as courtesy demanded, but neither did she hesitate to address Gildrumir’s thinly veiled attempt to insult. “They will vouch for my skill.”

The hum of voices in the Gallery rose another octave in surprise. Kivi lifted her chin proudly and met Kíli’s eyes without fear, shame, or undue deference. He couldn’t help but tip his head toward her in respect for her fearlessness.

“It is unseemly for a _maid_ to lead masons of the Khazâd,” Gildrumir, however, refused to back down. “No dwarrow will respect the authority of her mallet, no matter how skilled it is.”

“Is that so?” Kíli had anticipated this sort of ignorance - he had, in fact, chosen the location of the day’s Council with the express intent to counter any protests against Kivi’s gender - and he casually lifted a bejeweled hand to indicate the iconic halls that surrounded them. “Was this Gallery not designed and its construction overseen by Famli, wife of King Thràin’s younger brother, Lord Theàd? Was she not a master mason of Durin’s folk and did not stonesmiths of the West’s three Houses flock eagerly to her call, to carve these hallowed halls?” as he spoke, the young King’s voice rose, until it echoed majestically off of the vaulted ceilings high above them. “Did she not carve Erebor’s great throne herself and lay the plans for our forges and mines?” Kíli paused for effect, his dark eyes locked onto Kivi’s dissenter with all the royal disdain that he could muster. “You have forgotten much, it would seem, Lord Gildrumir. But, there are dwarrow within this Mountain who still remember Master Famli and this Gallery of Kings still speaks on her behalf. The sons of Durin, **Úri** , and **Dwàlin** obeyed her gladly and they will do the same for _Mestari_ Kivi.”

There was no room for misinterpretation - Kíli had all but said that the remaining masons, stone-workers, and engineers of Erebor would follow Kivi’s command, or the Crown itself would make it so. Gildrumir, wisely, fell silent, although a restless shuffle rippled through the crowd on either side of the Gallery.

“What of the Elf, _thanu men_?” a younger lord who stood a little closer toward the oaken chair and Kivi’s party asked with an uncertain side-long glance at Katrikki.

“Where there is work, there must always be a healer,” Kíli replied, his tone nearly dismissive. “I hear from Master Òin himself that there is no finer healer than _Mestari_ Katrikki at present in these lands. The restorers of Erebor deserve the best.”

Kíli caught the sudden tilt of Kivi’s lips, as she fought to hide a fierce smile at his praise. While his words were certainly chosen with the intent to manipulate the dwarrow to set aside their ingrained prejudices, he spoke with utter sincerity. He was pleased to see that his true intent had not escaped her notice.

“If I may, Your Majesty,” Kivi inclined her head submissively toward him and waited for him to approve of her interjection.

Kíli softly murmured an assent and she continued with another smile tugging lightly at the corners of her mouth.

“ _Mestari_ Katrikki brings more than just her skill with herbs in service to the good folk of Erebor. The Elves of Thulin’s lands have long possessed the ability to tame and shape fire; _Mestari_ Katrikki is a master of this art. This means that she can provide lights for Erebor’s construction that can burn brighter and longer than any touch or candle. And should we encounter any foul air in the eastern interlock, the mastered fire of the Avari will not explode. As a gesture of goodwill, she is also willing to teach this art to others beneath the Mountain, to aid in future explorations and restorations.”

All of Balin’s lessons in courtly demeanor couldn’t keep Kíli’s eyebrows from arching toward the low sweep of the Raven Crown. It was a common perception (and not an wholly unfounded one) that Elves gave nothing of their arts and secrets freely. The knowledge of lights that wouldn’t fade within an hour’s time, or that wouldn’t explode when exposed to released gases, was a priceless gesture of goodwill toward the dwarrow of Erebor. Even if he had been inclined to dismiss Katrikki from the Mountain, Kíli could not possibly justify such an action now.

His gesture of faith to Kivi the night before was being returned three-fold, as far as he was concerned. And, he had to admit, that Kivi was surprisingly sly - she had to have known that her own presence, much less Katrikki’s, would have engendered disapproval from at least one influential lord. She had come prepared, however, and the Council could now conclude with an ironclad alliance between her people and his.

There would still be many - like Gildrumir - who wouldn’t like the results of today’s Council. But, even if they continued to protest (and Kíli had no illusions that they wouldn’t), they now had little room for leverage. There wasn’t a miner, mason, or smith in Erebor who would jeopardize the possibility of learning a rare art that could save lives _and_ increase production, no matter the race or gender of the master who taught them.

“The concerns of this Council are now met,” Kíli pushed down on the arms of his chair and moved smoothly to his feet. “ _Mestari_ Kivi has already asked her price for rebuilding what remains and we have accepted those terms. Masters of the North,” he turned his attention from the Gallery at large to Kivi and her companions. “We once again welcome you to Erebor. Perhaps we may now introduce you to these halls and to Master Alf, the master mason of Durin’s House?”

“As you wish, Your Majesty,” Kivi bowed one final time and then stepped to the side to make way for Kíli’s descent.

“This Council is adjourned,” Kíli motioned to Balin to strike the golden floor with his tipstave to formally underscore his dismissal. “Any further concerns may be brought to Master Balin and addressed in private council.”

The young king knew that it wasn't quite appropriate of him to do so, but he couldn't help sending a meaningful glance toward Gildrumir. The older dwarf turned his gaze away in appropriate deference, but Kíli didn’t miss the sneer he gave Kivi in exchange.

 _We’ll have to watch that one_ , Kíli thought to himself as Kivi, her companions, and Dwalin fell in step behind him.

He had a feeling that both he and Kivi had made an enemy that morning. Kíli made a mental note to ask Dáin for more information on Gildrumir and his connections. Though he couldn’t fathom what Gildrumir could gain by opposing the Durin’s throne and by undermining Kivi, Kíli had now been king long enough to know that one never assumed that _any_ adversary was impotent.

He mulled over such thoughts as he and his small retinue made their way through the parted crowd. Once they reached the Gallery’s intersection, Kíli paused and motioned for Kivi to step up beside him.

She had apparently been waiting for his permission to do so, because she started talking as soon as she took her new place at his right.

“If you don’t object, Your Majesty, I’d like to send Jarvi, Katrikki, and Seppä back to Dale. There are duties they would attend to while I tour the the Mountain with you.”

“I don’t object at all,” Kíli flashed her one of his more winning smiles, in the hope of putting her enough at ease that she dropped the formality he so loathed. “Although I hope you all will join us tonight for the first keg tap of the Fest.”

“I’ve already told Master Jarvi that he only _thinks_ he has a choice ‘bout ‘ttending tonight’s festivities,” Bofur’s cheerful voice and distinctive hat bobbed out of the frey behind them.

“I ought to decline, just on principle,” Jarvi tried to look put-upon, but the twinkle in his blue eyes destroyed any hope that his companions might think him serious.

“Pfft,” Bofur waved a gloved hand at his new friend with a cheeky grin. “A discerning dwarf such as yerself wouldn't easily pass up the opportunity for good ale and better company.”

“Perceptive, this one,” Katrikki’s voice was soft, but playful, and Kíli glanced over at the Elf in interest. “Where’d you find him, Jarvi?”

“Came to dinner last night with the King,” Jarvi nodded respectfully toward Kíli, before winking playfully at Bofur. “Katrikki, Bofur. Bofur, Katrikki.”

“Greetings, Mistress Katrikki,” Bofur tugged at the front of his cap as he bowed slightly to the lovely Avari. And I’m not _that_ perceptive, I assure ya’. S’just easy to read a fella whose got the same tastes.”

To Kíli’s surprise, Kivi searched for and caught his eye. She lifted her brows and smiled as if to say ‘we were right’; Kíli chuckled softly in agreement.

“Besides assuring that our guests visit us again this evening, what brings you over, Bofur?” the King gently nudged the conversation along, before everyone’s focus could veer too far off topic.

“Oh,” Bofur turned away from Katrikki and Jarvi, and jerked his thumb over his shoulder in the vague direction of Kíli’s oaken chair. “Balin suggested that I come with you an’ Master Kivi, seein’ as I’m head engineer and all that.”

“You’ve worked on the eastern interlock?” Kivi eyed Bofur with renewed interest.

“Aye,” the older dwarf nodded solemnly. “Woulda’ been there the mornin’ it caved, too, if’n I hadn’t slept late by accident.”

“Well,” Kivi murmured. “I am sorry for the loss of your kin. But, by the same token, I’m glad that you were spared. At least we will not be starting entirely from scratch.”

“Aye,” Bofur agreed.

Jarvi, Seppä, and Katrikki then said their farewells and promised to return in the evening to join in the festivities. Kivi gave Jarvi a message to pass along to Artur and confirmed that she would be touring the interlock and other points of interest in Erebor for the rest of the day. The parties then split and Kíli turned his full attention to Kivi as they prepared to head further into the Mountain.

“So, you say this Gallery was built by a female mason?” Kivi picked up the thread of conversation as she turned around in a circle to take in the full magnificence of the arched colomns and the four clear thoroughfares that passed between them.

“Yes,” Kíli was pleased to hear her finally drop her courtly formality; for a moment, he was able to imagine that they were just themselves - a young dwarf and a maid - and that the Raven Crown did not weigh so heavily on his brow. “This is part of the Mountain’s great entrance. From here, you can head anywhere you wish inside of the spire,” he pointed toward the chair he had occupied earlier and the doorway that stood beyond it. “The entrance to the great forges lie to the north; to the south, as you already know, are the gates of Erebor. If you go east, you’ll find your way to the throne room and the royal levels. This way,” he turned west and motioned for her to follow him as he began to walk through the thinning crowd. “Will lead into the heart of the mountain, to the city levels and the mines below them.”

They were quiet for a few minutes after that; Bofur and Dwalin trailed along behind and Kivi turned her head every which way as they passed the entrances to other halls, stairways, and streets. Kíli was never one to suffer silence for long, however, so after about five minutes of a measured pace, he tried to engage his guest in a conversation that didn’t have anything to do with Erebor or her new obligations to his throne.

“How is young Keri this morning?” he hoped he wasn’t picking an inappropriate time to ask such a personal question; as far as he was concerned, there wasn’t anything of architectural interest in the upper levels, since they had been the first parts of Erebor to be reconstructed after his coronation.

“Oh, bedridden and irritable,” Kivi surprised him with a short laugh. “And bored out of her mind, though I managed to instill a little perspective in her before leaving this morning.”

“I imagine she won’t be climbing trees again any time soon?” Kíli felt his own mouth lift up in a smile.

“Not without making sure it can hold her weight,” Kivi chuckled. “I don’t mind her taking risks, but she _must_ learn to be aware of her surroundings. She has her grandfather’s heart and I suspect that she’ll spend the rest of her life looking to the horizon for the next great adventure. I would rather she do so with a well-developed sense of self-preservation.”

“‘Her grandfather’s heart’?” Kíli repeated the phrase with a curious title of his dark head.

“Yes,” Kivi seemed to realize that she had let something slip that she hadn’t intended and her cheeks flushed for a moment in the light of the flickering torches along the walkway beside them. “My father was an Umlit. The children of Sinuphel and Khazí have always wandered the wilds and the wastes. To explore, to seek adventure - these things are in Keri’s blood.”

“You know the story of Sinuphel and Khazí?” Kíli almost stopped in surprise; Kivi gave him a puzzled glance out of the corner of her eye.

“Of course. It is the story of _my_ blood, after all, and it is one of the great stories of the North. I was put to bed many a night to my father’s telling of that tale.”

“You have Mannish blood, then?” Kíli found himself intrigued in spite of himself.

Kivi hesitated for a moment, as if weighing the consequences of her reply. After a moment’s deliberation, however, she seemed to decide that it was best to answer simply.

“Yes. My father’s mother was a woman of Men.”

“A...Lossoth?” Kíli was proud of himself for remembering the name.

“No,” light glittered across her braids as Kivi shook her head. “Although, a logical guess, sire,” her blue eyes turned to consider him carefully, before she continued. “She was from Fornost Erain, the capitol of Men in the kingdom of Arthedain. How she came to be found by my grandfather’s tribe, nearly dead in the Forodwaith’s first winter snowfall, is a story that she never told,” the master mason shrugged her shoulders, as if mysterious family origins were par for the course.

“And your mother?” Kíli found his eyes lingering on Kivi’s smooth cheeks - the lack of a beard was certainly in part, then, from her great-grandmother, but did the dams of the Stiffbeards claim such delicate features as well?

So wrapped up was he in his curiosity, that Kíli almost missed the way something flickered and shut in Kivi’s gaze. It was all he could do not to stop and stare at her in surprise. One moment, she was open, if cautious. The next, it was if she had shuttered every emotion behind an implacable, unreadable mask.

“She was a Stiffbeard,” Kivi surprised him even further by answering his question. “A great mason of Thulin’s House.”

“Ah,” Kíli could tell, though he didn’t know _why_ , that he had struck a nerve

He worried that he had offended her, but the guarded expression on her face made it difficult for him to pursue the topic further, even if only to apologize for his unwitting error. For the rest of their walk together, that was the last that Kivi would speak of anything that wasn’t related to Erebor and the business of putting it back together.

* * *

 

Nali had to lift up her skirts and practically _jog_ after the Princess; the moment the King had dismissed the Council, Dís had made a beeline for the southern thruway. There was no explanation for her haste, either. All Nali could figure out was that something in Kivi Journeyman’s appearance had disturbed the High Lady of Erebor, though the merchant couldn’t fathom _what_. The two dams had been watching the Council from one of the arched walkways above the Gallery; when Kivi and her company introduced themselves, Nali had heard Dís gasp softly. From that point forward, the King’s mother had turned oddly pale and preoccupied.

Finally, Dís’ frantic pace slowed and Nali nearly stopped herself, in shock. Without any hesitation - her air of distraction replaced by a welcoming smile - the Princess approached the Northern smith with an outstretched hand. 

“ _Mestari_ Seppä!” Dís called brightly once she was within hearing range.

The so-named Stiffbeard stopped and turned toward the Princess with a slight frown. His expression cleared, however, once he placed her face and he only turned away from her briefly, to wave his two companions on their way toward Erebor’s gates.

“ _Ezbadu men,_ ” Seppä bowed so low that his long beard nearly touched the golden floor beneath their feet. “What a pleasant surprise to meet you here.”

“Not so surprising,” Dís finally stopped - much to Nali’s gratitude - and flashed the black-haired smith a fetching smile as he took her offered hand and pressed it to his lips. “I am more than just a lady of Ered Luin, as it turns out.”

“So it would seem,” Seppä replied politely, but there was an unmistakable question in the ebony gaze that he turned toward Dís.

He seemed to be thinking through something and Dís waited patiently for him to come to his conclusion. When he did, the master smith didn’t even bother to hide his astonishment.

“You are Thorin Oakenshield’s sister,” his black eyebrows beetled up into his unruly hairline. “Which means…” he stopped short and then bowed again, even lower than he had before.

“Please, good Master,” Dís, gracious as always, reached out again and touched Seppä’s burly shoulder with gentle fingers. “I came over simply to welcome a familiar face to the Mountain.”

“You honor me, _Ezbadu men_ ,” Seppä murmured, sufficiently humbled by the revelation that the dam he had apparently only known before as a lady of the Blue Mountains was, in fact, the mother of the King and the Princess of Erebor.

“You honor _us_ , _Mestari_ Seppä,” Dís shook her head firmly. “Thank you for joining your companions in rebuilding Durin’s halls.”

“You are most welcome, Your Highness,” the Stiffbeard smiled slightly. “But, I must admit that I only follow the lead of _Mestari_ Kivi, as I ever have.”

“Ah, yes... _Mestari_ Kivi,” there was no change in Dís’ expression or tone, but Nali had been a courtesan of Durin’s royal line long enough to tell that the Princess had something important in her sights. “It is she who came with you to claim Lord Viljo’s body, is she not?”

Seppä’s expression didn’t change either, but his eyes gave him away. At Dís’ question, a wariness crept along the crow’s feet at the corner of his eyes and settled deep in the dark wells of his pupils.

“Aye,” the smith’s voice was rich and smooth; even Nali couldn’t hear any hint of the caution that was reflected in his eyes. “She is indeed who you saw mourning in the Halls of Memory.”

“With her cousin... _Mestari_ Jarvi, then?” Dís’ gaze flickered forward just long enough to consider the enormous iron gates that stood open only a thousand yards or so from where they stood.

“Aye,” Seppä titled his head to the side in confirmation. “You have an excellent memory, Your Highness.”

“I wish, in this instance, that I did not,” Dís now turned her consideration to Seppä; her eyes never wavered as she watched his face closely. “The death of your Eldest Brother on the lands that my brother left in my care has always weighed heavily on my thoughts.”

“Ah,” it seemed that Seppä had run out of things to say; he met Dís gaze head-on, but his shoulder’s tensed in a defensive tell.

Nali was more than just a little confused, but she kept her counsel as she watched the unspoken drama unfold between the smith and Erebor’s Princess. It was Dís who broke the silent impasse.

“If my memory serves me correctly, you told me that it was Lord Viljo’s _sister_ who mourned him that day in Ered Luin’s tombs,” the Princess’ voice was barely above a whisper, so as not to be overheard by those passing by them; her eyes practically riveted Seppä to the floor. “So, by your own admission, _Mestari_ Kivi is far more than a simple mason, isn’t she?”

Seppä only inclined his head slightly toward Dís; his refusal to confirm or deny was just as damning as if he had answered her.

“What is the daughter of your chieftain doing, _Mestari_ , wandering about the lands of Men? If she has, truly, built towers in Osgiliath and sea-walls in Dol Amroth, then she has been wandering the West for far longer than a craftsman on hire normally would.”

“Do not concern yourself with the North, Your Highness,” Seppä answered bluntly. “You want no part of our secrets.”

“ _Mestari_ Kivi is a beautiful maid and even the King of this Mountain is intrigued by her. I have part of your secrets, whether you wish it or not, Master Smith.”

Nali glanced at Dís in surprise. _She_ hadn’t noticed any particular interest reflected in Kíli’s words or actions toward Kivi Journeyman...but then again, Nali wasn’t his mother, nor did she watch him with a mother’s eyes.

“I can assure you, _Ezbadu men_ , that _Mestari_ Kivi has suffered far too much to return any interest or intrigue. Her intentions toward your King are purely ones of trade and honor,” Seppä shook his head with an air of finality that brooked no argument. “Nothing more.”

Dís was quiet for what seemed, to Nali, like an eternity. Finally, she sighed and closed her eyes, as if weighed down by a burden that could hardly be borne.

“I hope that you are right, _Mestari_ Seppä. But, I also hope, for your sake, that your secrets do not bring further sorrow to my House and home.”

“We hold our secrets close for that very reason,” Seppä vowed softly. “Let us rebuild your halls in peace and then we will be on our way. _Mestari_ Kivi wishes to be nothing more than the mason she is; treat her accordingly, Your Highness, and you need never worry about our troubles darkening your threshold.”

“Very well,” Dís finally conceded; she searched the Stiffbeard’s face carefully and then, seemingly satisfied with what she saw, she dismissed him. “Good day, _Mestari_. I hope to see you tonight.”

“As you wish, Your Highness,” Seppä bowed low one last time and then took his leave without another word.

Dumbfounded, Nali watched with her Princess until the smith disappeared into the watery sunlight that poured through Erebor’s massive entrance. Once Seppä’s black hair could no longer be seen, she turned toward Dís, dumbfounded.

“Your Highness…?” Nali struggled to keep her mouth from hanging open.

“Mistress Nali,” Dís spoke calmly, her gaze still lingering on the gates before them.

“Yes, _Ezbadu men_?” Nali answered cautiously; what the Princess asked her next nearly floored the poor jewel merchant.

“How would you and An like to take your wares to our kin in the North? Gabilzahar should be quite lovely this time of year…”

* * *

 

**Reference**

**Úri** \- also known as "Úri the Scarred", one of the Seven Fathers of the dwarrow. Father of the Firebeards.

 **Dwàlin** \- also known as "Dwàlin the Wise", one of the Seven Fathers. Father of the Broadbeams.


	19. Used To Play

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Dís explains herself, and Kivi finds an unexpected kinship with Kíli.

_ “Tell me that the night is long; _

_ Tell me that the moon is glowing.” _

**“Nil Sè'n Là”**

**Celtic Women**

\-------------

 

**Abkân-nurt (Ab), 'Afgargablâg 1st**

_ (Friday, April 30th) _

**_Erebor_ **

\-------------

 

“ _ Ezbadu men _ , I don’t understand,” the doors to the Princess’ sitting room had barely shut, before Nali was sputtering with confusion.

“Where would you like me to start?” Dís sighed heavily as she sank down into the nearest brocade armchair.

“For starters...you know  _ Mestari _ Seppä?” Nali perched on the edge of the chair next to the Princess and leaned in toward her.

“He is more of an acquaintance,” Dìs pinched the bridge of her nose and closed her eyes. “I met him briefly about two and a half years ago...perhaps three, now. When my brother, Thorin, left Ered Luin, he left me in charge of the mountains, of our people, in his stead. He had called a meeting of the seven lords before he left to journey to this mountain; when every lord refused to aid him, he began his journey that very night. Three days later, a hunting party of men from one of the nearby towns found a dwarven body left to ruin in the forests not far from Ered Luin’s gates. It was the body of one of the lords who had come at Thorin’s bidding.”

Nali’s eyebrows rose in alarm. Dwarves did not just fall over dead on their own lands.

“The Men came to us at Ered Luin and took a party of our own hunters out to collect the body. When they returned, the Captain of the Guard came immediately to me and told me that the body was none other than the Stiffbeard lord, who had come in place of their chieftain, as was their custom. We sent riders to the North, to send word of Lord Viljo’s death to his people,” Dís paused and frowned at the fire, as the memories took her over. “Those riders never returned and to this day, nothing is known of their fate. However, a month after Lord Viljo’s death, a strange company came to Ered Luin - three dwarves, two male and one female. Two claimed to be Lord Viljo’s kin and were shown to the Halls of Memory. The third asked to speak to the ‘lord or lady of the mountains’ and that is how I first met Master Seppä.”

Nali made a soft sound of comprehension in the back of her throat. The Princess continued without turning away, even once, from the dancing firelight to their left.

“We went down to the Halls, the  _ Mestari _ and I. We watched from a distance as a female dwarf that he identified as Lord Viljo’s sister mourned beside the tomb we had given him. The third dwarf,  _ Mestari _ Seppä said, was Lord Viljo’s cousin. I never saw the maid’s face, nor that of her cousin, but I saw their hair shining in the torchlight. Heads of scarlet and copper, both.

“They left Lord Viljo’s body to rest in Ered Luin and departed the next morn without saying a word of farewell to anyone. I always thought that strange - why would they come to mourn, but not to take their kin back to be buried in his own Halls of Memory?” Dís shook her head, the mystery now solved. “And when news came of this mountain, of Thorin, of...my sons,” she shut her eyes with a weariness that Nali could feel. “I thought nothing more of the Stiffbeards. Until today, when I saw  _ Mestari _  Seppä stand before our king, with two other Northern dwarves - one male, one female - with hair as bright as fire.”

“ _ Mestari  _ Kivi is Lord Viljo’s sister?” Nali shook her head, still not quite understanding. “But, I don’t -”

Dís raised her hand and Nali immediately fell silent. After a moment, as if to collect herself, the Princess continued.

“Lord Viljo was the Elder Brother of the Stiffbeard chieftain. He is the second of that title that I have met in my lifetime. The first was an older dwarf by the name of Vasara - who I now suspect to be either Lord Viljo’s father or grandfather.  Vasara came to a newly settled Ered Luin with my brother, Frerin, during the War of the Dwarves and Orcs, before the Battle of Azanûlbizar. The Chief of the North never leaves his halls; according to Vasara, this is the way it has ever been among the Stiffbeards. In the chief's place, it is his brother - the eldest, if there are more than one - who stands and speaks for him among the other Houses.

“Lord Viljo answered Thorin’s summons as the Elder Brother, which means that he was the Stiffbeard Chieftain's brother. And if  _ Mestari _ Kivi is Lord Viljo’s remaining sister, then…” Dís spread her hands wide and Nali finished her thought.

“Then she is  _ also _ the sister of the Stiffbeard Chieftain,” the middle-aged merchant breathed in amazement.

“She is my equal and second only in standing to our King,” Dís continued, grim-faced. “We all learned from Vasara that as the House of Durin is in the West, so the House of Thulin is in the East. They are chiefs of not only their own, but of all those who descend from the remaining three Fathers: Thelor the Rich, father of the Ironfists; Druin the Proud, father of the Blacklocks; Malin the Cold, father of the Stonefoots. The young master mason who would rebuild this Mountain is _not_ a common-born craftsman, as she would have my son believe. She is a _princess_...and perhaps the only dwarf-dam in Arda other than myself, who can claim such a title **.** ”

For several long moments, Nali just  _ gaped _ . After considerable effort, she collected herself and managed to sputter a weak:

“Why does she hide this? Why come before Durin’s heir as a common dwarf? Why live among  _ Men _ ?”

“Exactly,” Dís dark eyes glittered in the flickering light as she finally turned her head to meet Nali’s flummoxed gaze. “Why does the daughter of a king - and a  _ king _ the Stiffbeard chieftain is, no matter what they call him - wander homeless?”

Nali knew the answer as certainly as Dís did. The answer, however, was fraught with a darkness that the merchant almost couldn’t bear to consider.

“Why would  _ any _ dwarf-prince - or princess - wander without a home?” the red-headed ‘dam bowed her head before her king’s mother and shuddered at the truth such a question uncovered.

“For  _ some _ reason,” Dís answered, even though Nali’s question was mostly rhetorical. “She has none.”

Brown eyes met black, as the two dwarrow-dams considered each other solemnly. When Nali spoke next, her voice was so soft as to be almost imperceptible.

“So you would have me find out what chases the Princess of Thulin from her homeland?”

“Yes,” Dís answered firmly. “And why she would hide her identity from even her own kin.”

“ _ Mestari _ Seppä seemed to suggest that they keep these secrets to protect not only themselves,” Nali hesitated for a moment and then shook her head in something like disbelief. “But to protect  _ us _ as well.”

“I heard the same in his words,” the Princess affirmed Nali’s understanding of the brief conversation that had been held in the Gallery of Kings. “And that, more than anything else, concerns me. If  _ Princess _ Kivi believes that hiding her identity protects even those who would make her acquaintance, then I fear to imagine what it is she  _ must _ be running from.”

“Do you think that ill could come to Erebor, because of her?” Nali eyed Dís warily, her heart suddenly thundering in her throat.

“I fear so,” Dís closed her eyes and sighed. “Which is why I will honor  _ Mestari _ Seppä’s warning. For now,” she added and opened her eyes to pierce Nali with a queen’s gaze. “I will keep my own counsel and we will keep this conversation between us.”

Nali nodded quickly, the order in her princess’ voice unmistakable.

“If they truly believe that keeping ‘ _Mestari_ ’ Kivi’s identity a secret will protect _us_ , then I will respect their boundaries. But, secrets have a way of harming, even with the best of intentions. I will _not_ allow _that_ ,” Dís rose and gazed down at Nali with a face as fierce as any warrior’s. “You will be my spy, Mistress Nali, and you will find out what has turned so foul in the North. It is only with that knowledge that we can perhaps save them...or ourselves.”

* * *

 

To her unending surprise, Kivi found that she enjoyed the company of Erebor’s young king. With the exception of his question about her mother, the afternoon she spent with him was quite pleasant. Kíli Thorinkin was, in her opinion, unexpectedly  _ humble _ . He did not possess any of the hardness, arrogance, or cruelty that she had come to associate with dwarven lords and princes. If anything, she reminded him a bit of her own father, in his watchful demeanor and sly humor. He was down-to-earth, as Bard would have said.  _ Grounded _ , as Meikko might have once described him. He was aware of his position and his station, for sure, but in a private party such as theirs, he carried himself almost like any ordinary dwarf.

It was... _ attractive _ . The thought was a little alarming.

He had taken her to the kitchens, first, where his unannounced presence had caused something of a panic, until the head cook lumbered up to them with a tray of strong tea and cream-stuffed biscuits. Said cook, as it turned out, was Bofur’s quite corpulent brother, Bombur. He was also one of the members of the Company that had traveled with Thorin Oakenshield to reclaim the Lonely Mountain. As such, he had a relatively high standing among the dwarrow of the Mountain and a level of familiarity with the King that was taking Kivi some time to get used to. Much of Kíli’s royal comportment seemed to disappear around those he had fought, bled, and wandered with.

It was during their impromptu lunch that Kivi met the mason from the Iron Hills with whom she would be working with beneath the spire - the diminutive Master Alf. After getting over the shock of meeting such a young and frail-looking craftsman, she found that it was hard to dislike Alf. Although, she couldn’t help but be rather bemused by his obvious awe of her.  _ That _ , she decided, was going to take as much getting used to as the thought that maybe - just  _ maybe _ \- she  _ liked _ the King Under the Mountain.

Her first surveyal of the eastern interlock was daunting. Nothing was said there, as she, Kíli, Alf, Bofur, and Dwalin stood on the edge of a broken road and took in the awful destruction that had laid waste to nearly a whole quarter of the Mountain. Kivi stood on that ledge for nearly fifteen, silent minutes, as she considered the devastation with a master’s eye. At first glance, it was an overwhelming task that lay before her, but as she eyed it longer, a tentative plan began to take shape. The first order of business, she told Kíli as they returned the way that they had come, was to examine every “point of fault”.  Every place where carved stone had reached out beyond the firm foundation of the mountain needed to be closely examined. That meant that she would need a team of dwarves willing to crawl over the walls of the Mountain on either side of the collapsed interlock. Perhaps, then, they could figure out what had caused the roads and levels to fall.

By the time their group returned to the Gallery of Kings, the sun was starting to set and there were more dwarrow milling about than Kivi had ever seen gathered in one place before. Well...that she had seen gathered together in the  _ West _ . As she stood next to Kíli and quietly watched the buoyant fervor swirling around them on every side, she was viscerally reminded of the Sky Hall on summer market days. The thought made her reach up and press a fist to her mouth and her eyes water before she could pull her emotions under her control.

There were more than just dwarrow in the polished halls of the Kings. There were  _ Men _ , laughing and chatting with their stout neighbors, with baskets of cloth, and vegetables, and trinkets balanced on their hips. There were  _Elves_  appearing on the Gateway - the smooth road that lead to the Mountain’s entrance - and their silver-blond hair shimmering in the red-tinged light that spilled through the open parapets behind them. They carried round casks on their shoulders and an excited hum spread through the crowd as others caught sight of them.

The three races of the Lonely Mountain’s plains, forests, and lakes mingled together beneath the stern stone faces of dwarven lords long gone. There was laughter, a thousand conversations ebbing and flowing along the walls, and somewhere closer toward the Gates came the first tentative trill of what her folk called “ _säckpipa”_. The tears that had been threatening her usual self-control finally fell - Oskari had played the  _ säckpipa _ and Kivi hadn’t heard them since just before the Harrowing.

It brought back a memory that - like her tears - she couldn’t resist. For just a moment, she was back in her mother’s tower, on a velvety summer eve not so different from the one falling just outside of Erebor. She had lain on her stomach, in front of the fire that, according to tradition, was never allowed to go out, on a thick pelt that Viljo had brought back from the first hunt of his adulthood. Her mother had sat on the floor with her and combed Kivi’s unruly hair with one hand and rested the other on her slowly swelling belly. Viljo, too, had sprawled out on the floor, at an angle from his sister, with the wooden pieces of a game scattered, forgotten, between them. Oskari had played his pipes for them that night; by the next night, he was dead.

“ _ Mestari _ …?” an unfamiliar tenor voice jolted her out of her reverie and it took Kivi several long seconds to shake the vision of Kivi Torni from her sight.

A hand tentatively touched her elbow and she turned her head to gaze, confused, at a young male dwarf, about her age, who was standing next to her. His hair was the color of a  _ losrandir _ ’s coat…

_ Kiinteä? _

No, his eyes were wrong. Kiinteä’s eyes were the color of amber - tawny and almost golden in the right light. These eyes were like smoked quartz and almost the same smooth shade of the hair that framed them. The face was different, too - bearded and much more angular. This was an older dwarf who, while young like Kiinteä, had several more years of adulthood to harden his features.

The right name came to Kivi, then.  _ Kíli. _

His name was Kíli. And he was a king, not a lowly guard.

“Your Majesty,” she blurted, embarrassed by her tears. “My apologies, sire,” she bowed hastily, and tried to think of a reasonable excuse to run as fast as she could away from him and his infernal Mountain.

“No need,” Kíli’s fingers still held onto her elbow and she took a deep breath, to keep herself from jerking her arm out of his grasp.

His touch was not wholly unwelcome. And his eyes...those smoke-filled eyes...were kind.  _ Too _ kind. Kivi almost couldn’t bear the King’s compassion and yet…

And yet, she leaned ever so slightly in toward him.

And yet, she longed for kindness, for warmth, for a kinship forged in shared sacrifices.

And yet, those very feelings made her angry. Made her _weak_.

“Please, forgive me, Your Majesty,” she shook her head, as she finally pulled her elbow out of his reach. “The pipes…” her voice betrayed her and broke; she could only gesture inarticulately down the Gateway to indicate the shrill, distinctive music that now threatened to drown out the voices of Men, Elves, and Dwarves.

“That would be one of Daín’s folk,” Kíli seemed to be at somewhat of a loss; he reached up and rubbed a palm roughly over the thickening hair along the curve of his jaw, as if to hide his uncertainty. “They do like their pipes.”

“We call them  _ säckpipa _ ,” the words tumbled out of her before she could swallow them back.

It was his eyes, and the kindness in them, that loosened something deep inside of her. The words  _ just kept coming _ .

“My father used to play them.”

She turned away from him, then, as her eyes scrambled over the granite columns that held the weight of Erebor up above them. Her mouth was dry; her eyes hot; her heart hollow. Why did such simple things always leave her undone?

“I have a hard time hearing a violin,” a small gasp fell from her lips as she felt King’s brush her ear with all the passing weight of a butterfly’s wings.

She turned her head, then, and stared at him in shock as their noses nearly touched. He had stepped in toward her and she hadn’t even noticed. Her wide eyes met his and that’s when she realized that she had more in common with the King Under the Mountain than she would have ever wished upon him. There was a sorrow she knew only too well reflected back at her; his words left yet more tears in her eyes.

“I used to play with my brother.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've been reading A Song For Heart and Soul, I would like to invite you to check it's original fiction face-lift. I've been working, for several months now, to turn the basic premise of ASFHAS into an original high-fantasy-meets-romance.
> 
> I've finally finished my edits/rewriting and submitted it to a contest for possible publication. I would be over the moon if all of ya'll that have read it here, would hope over to its new home and re-read/follow it it there (just copy/paste link):
> 
> The Uncrowned Queen: https://www.inkitt.com/stories/romance/70037?preview=true&ref=a_420bd4bb-390d-452d-9603-d438b913e842
> 
> I've gotten a lot of love from the fanfiction community over the years. If it wasn't FOR the fanfiction communities I've been a part of, I honestly would have stopped writing a long time ago. I'd love to keep telling stories to larger audiences...so I hope you don't mind this "public service announcement". I'd love to get Kivi's story out there, so maybe one day you can put that story on your own, real life shelf. :)
> 
> -Rabbit


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